Hitman: Crossroads
by 640509 040147
Summary: Post-Absolution, Diana and 47 have returned to the Agency. With Benjamin Travis dead, and all records of his work with Victoria gone, things were finally back to normal. But one thing nagged on in Diana's mind: Why didn't 47 kill her? Rated T for violence and strong language.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer** : Hitman is the property of IO Interactive. I do not claim any rights to the characters or the rich history of the franchise- in fact, I try to write only within the story which already exists (HITMAN 2016 excluded).

 _ **Special thanks to IO Interactive, David Bateson, and everyone else who has helped to create this franchise and the characters within it. You guys are all awesome!**_

 **If you don't like sad endings- this story is not for you. However- this tale will not be connected to any of my other fanfics. The other facfics will be mostly 47-centric, with others serving as secondary characters.**

 _Author's Note: The prelude is actually my interpretation of both a 'missing history' section of the time between the events of Hitman: Blood Money and Hitman: Absolution, and a small snippet just after the events of Absolution that set things up for this fanfic. The reason for this is because in Blood Money, Diana Burnwood takes advantage of 47's trust in order to save him. This leaves him conflicted about trusting her further- evident from the fact Diana tells a client that she lost track of him. It's also likely that he quit the Agency for the second time, at least for most of the six years that there is literally zero history for the characters._

* * *

Finding a Ghost

It took Diana just nearly five and a half years, and a lot of money for the agents doing the heavy lifting of the search, to finally track down 47. It wasn't overly surprising- the man was practically nonexistent. If she hadn't been his handler- if she hadn't met him- she would likely be as clueless as almost everyone else that he was anything more than a story. She had both saved and lost him with one difficult decision- to fake his death. He had given her his trust... and she had put a needle in his neck. The largest part of her didn't blame him- the smallest wanted forgiveness. He was her friend- or something close to a friend. It hadn't been easy on her to do it- but she'd had the best intentions. She'd wanted to save his life, and give him the opportunity to kill those who so nearly ended him. Maybe he would have escaped on his own- but why take the chance?

It was dangerous to do this herself, even though it had been an agent who'd found him. She could have sent the agent in, but she knew 47 probably better than anyone except himself- that agent would be dead in half a heartbeat the instant 47 thought the agent was after him. She could easily be just as dead- but she figured if anyone from the ICA could approach him at all- it was her. Maybe he'd put a bullet in her skull for doing what she did, but she was hoping their history would stay his hand long enough to explain.

Why the choice for this reacquainting to be in person? She was quite suddenly wondering that herself, actually. But then- she didn't have any contact to whoever was giving him contracts these days- and this seemed too personal to be left up to a phone call. He'd probably just hang up.

The current apparent safehouse that 47 had chosen was much like one she knew of while he was working for the Agency. It was underground- long-abandoned by public works, and just barely in the city limits. There was no way he wouldn't hear her approach, with the click of her comfortable pumps echoing in the underground space. Her heart was pounding in her ears, eyes examining the tunnel as she moved along.

It took fifteen whole minutes to make her way into the inner sanctum- where she finally spotted the barest edge of what appeared to be.. something. It was hard to tell if this was what she was looking for- the tunnel turned off at that point, and all she could see was a box with a cloth covered mound of what was probably weaponry or supplies. But as she continued on, she felt the cold end of a firearm press against the back-right of her skull. In that instant, she froze like a deer in headlights, heart racing more than it had been. She knew well who was on the other end of what felt like a large-caliber pistol. It would be one of his Silverballers. It didn't even need a silencer down here. No one would hear him shoot her.

She took a long, shaky breath, in an attempt to calm herself down. "47..." Well- at least she didn't sound _entirely_ pathetic. Still- she was at the mercy of a contract killer. If he thought for a second she was here to harm him, he would put a bullet in her head. He might anyway- but she had come unarmed.

47's weapon didn't move. He examined her carefully- cautious from their last meeting. He didn't want to end up dead again- not even falsely so. "You've been searching for me," he noted dryly. The assassin had known the other agents had been looking for him. He knew that it was her behind the search... and he had laid in wait for her here.

Diana's throat was suddenly very dry, and she swallowed what saliva she had to try and lubricate it. She shouldn't have been surprised- 47 was at the top for a reason- and it was probable that whoever he was working for now had supplied him with recon and intel, much like she once did. "And here you are. You could have left this location- never be found. So you want something." Maybe. It was all she could think of, really. Why not just shoot her?

"You would have kept looking." 47's tone rarely changed. This was no exception. "I should kill you."

Diana was used to the way he spoke- but being this close, and having that pistol at her skull made this quite the frightening ordeal. Especially when he pointed out that killing her would spare him further trouble. "Perhaps. But you'd probably be dead if I hadn't done what I did, 47. Permanently." She paused as she tried to collect herself- but she didn't dare move. "I know you feel betrayed... but I didn't see another way. You had to live."

47 considered her words for a long moment. "I trusted you, and you took the advantage to stab me with a poison needle." He sounded mildly perturbed, his voice gaining a weight to it slightly as he spoke. It was uncharacteristic.

"I also revived you." She pointed out. "I got you close to Cayne. Erased all the evidence of you that he had."

After another long moment, 47 lowered his weapon. She had a point. Even if he _had_ managed to fight his way out- Cayne would have been a much more difficult target in any other setting. But could he forgive Diana just on that? He didn't know. Not yet. But he'd hear her out, at least.

Diana visibly relaxed, and finally turned to face him. She'd almost forgotten just how imposing the man was- even without the trademark suit. He was currently without the jacket or tie, the first few buttons of his shirt undone, double holster secured over the shirt- but he was no less intimidating than he was with the full ensemble. She gave him a little frown. "I'm sorry, 47. I didn't see another way. I didn't believe you would go along with what I had planned- and there wasn't enough time to explain. The SWAT team was right on my heels."

His cold, piercing blue eyes softened ever-so-slightly as he slid the Silverballer back into its holster. "You'll have to _earn_ my trust, Diana." But at least he would give her the chance to do so. He stepped past her, into what she thought may have been where he was now dwelling.

Diana was uncertain if she should follow or not- but she'd come this far. She stepped into the area after him, glancing around a little. In one offshoot of the main chamber, he'd set up a small shooting range to keep his aim sharp. Boxes full of supplies were neatly stacked here and there- containing ammo, weapons, and his usual array of tools. On the far wall was a cot and an empty crate where his laptop had been placed. For a moment, she wondered how he got WiFi down here... but she figured he had his ways. An old rolling clothing rack served as his wardrobe- containing at least three different sets of the same suit. The man himself went to sit at a makeshift table with a crate for seating after fetching a second crate for her. His back was to the wall, and he simply watched her move towards him.

She sat across from him, clasping her hands on the makeshift table so he could see them. "Have you been well?"

47 just stared at her. "Idle chit-chat doesn't suit you. Did you come all the way down here just to apologize?"

Diana sighed. "No. I came to ask you to return to the Agency." She locked her eyes with his. Yes- he frightened her- but she would make eye contact regardless. She deeply respected the man, even if they were still a bit at-odds.

"I figured as much." He leaned forward slightly, as if to gauge each detail on her face to see if she was genuine.

The air grew thick in an uncomfortable silence before 47 finally spoke again. "If you do anything like that again, Diana- I will end you."

Diana released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "So is that a yes?"

47 gave a light nod. "I'll return to the Agency. On one condition."

Diana quirked a brow at him. "You're not usually one to set conditions, 47."

"No. But I remember the terms of the Agency. They will not simply allow you to work with me again. You knew that when you came down here. You would not be my handler unless I make it a stipulation for my return."

Her expression was one of both shock and amusement. "You want me back as your handler?"

"It would be difficult for you to earn back my trust if you were not, wouldn't it?" In fact- they would never speak again. She wouldn't have his contact information- let alone safehouse locations. He could easily work with someone he didn't exactly trust- he had been doing so since his absence from the Agency.

"I suppose it would. Do you really think they'll accept your terms?"

"They would be foolish not to."

Diana couldn't argue. When she left here, she would give his terms to the Agency. "How do I contact you to let you know what they decide?"

47 stood, and went to one of the crates. He pulled out a burn phone, programmed in his personal contact info, and tossed it to her. "Use that- for now. We'll re-establish a link in the usual way once I have confirmation."

"And your current employer?"

"That is none of your concern."

Diana nodded, and left without another word. Frankly- half of her wanted to flee. But she simply walked out. 47 knew the Agency would want him back- even enough to put aside their usual terms of service. He was just too valuable.

Travis' Ace

Benjamin Travis was the closest thing Victoria had to a father. He hadn't been the scientists that created her- but he had funded them, arranged for her creation, and spent quite a bit of money on her training, despite Diana saving her before that began. She had, thankfully, not suffered entirely since childhood- or if she did, she didn't remember- like 47. But she hated Travis, even now. He was dead and gone, and she hated him.

It had been 47 that had put his job and life on hold for her- at Diana's request. He had protected and saved her. But he had also helped fake Diana's death- and let _her_ believe she was dead. Still- perhaps he was more of a father-figure than Travis. He had been an experiment, too- he understood in ways no one else could. At the same time, he was a very private man. She hadn't even seen him since the day he brought her back to the home she shared with Diana.

In the end, she figured, at least she had Diana. She was like a mother- but she was also 47's handler. There was a great deal she couldn't talk about- _especially_ concerning him. Still. There was a reason she was going to law school next year. She needed to get away from this place. Away from the memory of Travis and the frustration of 47's secrets. Hell- he didn't even have a name!

There was no way to know that 47 was watching her even then, as she strolled out into the warm summer air.


	2. 1- Rooftop Meeting

It was summer in the northern hemisphere, and the weather outside Chicago was balmy, but not entirely unpleasant. Gentle white clouds made their way along the sky- birds flying about in flocks or alone, depending on the placement. Trees and shrubs were prevalent in the area, growing more so the further out one went from Chicago. The small outskirt-town wasn't overly busy, but nor was it empty. A perfect place to blend in. It was more sparsely populated where Diana chose to call home- currently, at least.

On a rooftop approximately one kilometer from Diana Burnwood's safehouse, 47 perched at the precipice, sniper rifle aimed steadily at her balcony. The summer wind blew his normal suit gently, but his arms remained steady, gaze fixed. It was now half a year after he had helped rescue Victoria, and was the second time he had checked in on them from somewhere nearby. Below him, the streets bustled along, completely unaware of his presence. He knew exactly where to stand so he would not be seen. Business as usual- though, this was personal.

Through the scope on his rifle, Victoria came into view as she walked out onto the balcony, alone. No doubt, Diana was conducting business elsewhere. After all, he doubted he was the only agent for whom she was the handler. The young girl looked well- she had opted to keep the necklace so she would not be constantly ill. But she was now going to college- a normal life. She had friends, and a part-time job at a small bookstore. No one would even know that she had been made to be a killer, like him. She would be moving to go to Harvard for law school soon. To imagine she'd be a lawyer someday was odd.

His keen senses picked up soft footsteps coming up the stairs to the roof- almost too late to remain unseen by the person who slid out the door. Almost. 47 was skilled at his profession, after all, and he had quickly moved behind an air conditioning unit, rifle being set silently to his far side. The briefcase the rifle fit into when broken down might attract whoever it was,but that couldn't be helped. He could easily eliminate the threat when they got close, after all.

To his surprise, however, it was Diana who knelt down next to his briefcase, dressed in a jogging outfit. She gently smoothed a finger along the case's metal edge. Her fitness suit was a deep blue, a stark contrast to her smooth white skin and red hair. Her shoes were white- made for running.

"You shouldn't be here." 47's tone was even and calm, his rather light British accent a stark contrast to Diana's, which was quite thicker.

Diana very nearly jumped out of her skin. She thought he'd gone to a different area- but he was barely ten feet from her. As his handler, she knew where he was at almost all times. Though, she would be the first to admit that the man could be a ghost even to her, when the need arose. "Neither should you." Her tone gave away her startled reaction as much as her body had, voice cracking in near-panic.

47 walked towards his case, not seeming to care that she moved out of arm's reach. He knelt down and began disassembling the rifle, sliding each part into place within the case. She had sought him out, so he would simply wait for her to tell him why- he didn't need to ask.

Diana steadied her breathing and collected her composure, watching him carefully. But as of late, something had been nagging at her mind- a distraction. And with their jobs, distractions were often deadly. "Why didn't you kill me that day, 47?"

This prompted the assassin to quirk a brow ever-so-slightly at her as his light blue eyes seemed to stare right through her. He closed the briefcase, latched it, and stood, settling the case in his left hand. He knew the day of which she spoke. It was the day she 'died' at his hand. "You figured I wouldn't." he noted in a level tone.

"No- I _hoped_ you wouldn't. I was actually counting on you killing me. You would have found my letter 're thorough like that. But you hesitated. You even sounded concerned after you wounded me. So why let me live? Why go against your modus operandi?" She stepped over to sit on the raised ledge of the roof, though still a few feet away from him. She kept her distance more out of respect than fear.

47 considered her questions as he smoothed his free hand down to thoroughly settle his suit's wrinkles from kneeling. "It didn't feel right- ending it like that." As usual, his tone never changed.

Diana frowned at him a little, more out of frustration than anything else. "That isn't much of an answer."

For a long moment, 47 was silent, as he thought of what to say. "Trust is a commodity that is hard to come by in our line of work, Diana. Especially for me. You know more of my past than most. I trust you. There is too much history between us. Every instinct bred into me told me something was wrong." He paused for a moment. "I believed that I could set aside those feelings. I was mistaken."

That was a bit more than she'd expected out of him, but the relief was plain on her expression. "You still took the contract." She sighed a little, gazing out towards the town. "Your record is one shy of perfect because of that."

"As I see it now, I was working for you. To fake your death and protect Victoria from Travis. The contract he gave me was a farse, and as such, my perfect record remains intact. We are both back with the Agency, and Travis is dead." Seeing the conversation concluded, in his opinion, at least, he began moving back towards the door to the stairs.

"47." Diana stood as she spoke to him now. When he stopped and looked over his shoulder to see what she wanted, she continued. "One more question, if you don't mind." He obviously didn't, as he turned to face her, simply waiting. "Why are you still looking after us like this?"

"I promised to keep Victoria safe. I keep my promises." He watched her reaction as she smiled at him brightly. Diana was the closest thing he had to a friend after he left Sicily, and Father Vittorio, behind. She had been his handler for some time now, after all. He could hardly think of a mission without her voice briefing him. And when Travis had taken his leash, so to speak, he had not been fond of it.

"Thank you, 47." Diana approached him now. If he'd meant her harm, he'd have already done it. But she only gave his arm a pat. Her hand felt as though it hit solid stone, covered vaguely by flesh. "Vittorio was right, you know."

"About what?" His gaze never left her, and he didn't even flinch at her touch.

His stoicism, even in this personal confrontation, was somewhat off-putting. She drew back almost immediately, as if apologizing. Her hands clasped in front of her as she looked up at him. "You're a good person."

He said nothing in response. She could believe what she wanted- and perhaps she was right. He tried to keep his honor intact despite his profession. He ended bad men who couldn't be touched by governments. For now, he waited, in case she needed anything else from him.

The way he watched her made her heart skip a beat. She was regretting meeting him like this. But he'd been this way every time she saw him in person. 47 was all business. What was different about now? Something in his eyes, maybe. If he had feelings, those eyes were the only window into them. "I guess that's all."

"It's dangerous to meet in person." He knew she was aware of this, but he felt the need to remind her. But since she was obviously done, he moved to the door, and held it open.

Diana quickly went through the door. She quite suddenly didn't want to be that close to him. Since the conversation was over, she hurried down the stairs and practically ran out down the sidewalk outside the building.

47 made his way out more calmly,so as not to draw attention to the fact that they had been out on the roof together. Diana went one way, and 47 went the other. A few blocks away, his car awaited. After a quick check for any devices on the vehicle, he went along his way, back to his own safehouse, outside city limits.


	3. 2- Downtime

47 was a simple, but elegant man. He wasn't picky about his residence. Some safehouses were quite upscale, while not being targeted for being rich. Though, he could easily live with only the barest of essentials. Once, he even lived out of an old sewer. But his current residence was like his more frequented haunts- an old building outside the boundary of a township in which his handler resided. Outside, it seemed kept well enough. No one would have even given it a second glance. It was rustic, but quaint- painted a soft off-white with gray trim. The building was nestled in the trees of the area, very nearly hiding it from view at the fence, which was simple and metal, topped with barbed wire and electrified. To justify this, there were even a few animals on the property. An orphan boy took care of them and the land in exchange for a small secondary cottage and a sum of money.

He had chosen this for both its seclusion and the old underground bunker. It was the bunker where he conducted business, housed his gear and weaponry, and practiced his marksmanship. Inside the bunker, the walls were all a medium gray, and nothing existed within that was not absolutely essential for his job.

Within the house, however, he would appear upper middle-class, with a utilitarian edge to his choice in furnishings. Everything was simple, yet elegant, from the modern but comfy couch to a relaxed reading chair. The entertainment center served only its purpose, to give him a window to the outside world. The flat-screen wasn't overly large- the sound system not overly elaborate or expensive.

The kitchen was all smooth metal and marble, set up for ease of use. Beyond that was a small dining area with only two chairs and a quaint wooden table that appeared to be hand-made. The separation was a half-wall that would provide ample cover from the front door. The side door was all glass, next to the dining area, and gave him a good view into the undecorated but well kept back yard and the above-ground workshop.

A hallway large enough for three people to pass eachother lead to a small guest restroom, and branched off towards the bedroom. The bedroom had only one window, which would not give any sniper a clear shot of his desk or head while in bed. The bed itself was a queen, which made it larger than he liked, but gave him space for a dummy, just in case. Beside the bed was a small bedside dresser where he kept a few essentials. The desk housed his laptop, a notebook, and a lamp. On one wall was a small closet and a wardrobe.

47 sat in front of his laptop, eyes scanning over some information. It was a little longer than normal between his last job and now, and he still didn't have a new contract. Instead, he was researching new technology that was being sent to him through the Agency.

The time between jobs seemed harder than the time he spent on assignment. There was simply too much time to think. Often, his mind wandered to his place in life, or flooded with memories- never good ones, really, though some were of previous missions.

Currently, he was reminded of Diana's presence on the rooftop a few hours prior. Not really a bad memory, but a confusing one. Diana seemed to be playing fast and loose with the ICA's rules concerning meeting agents in person. He'd made certain of her continued employment as his handler despite meeting him, but he couldn't see why she'd disobey the rules again. It wasn't the first time, either. He remembered at least three times- including the time she jabbed a needle into his neck. He pondered why she would do it now. She used to be quite prudent- cautious. But recently, she was seeming to become accustomed to meeting face-to-face. It wasn't exactly a healthy practice. Not only was it against the Agency's rules, but she could become a target. He knew he was the only agent she'd met in person. He was the only one she'd rescued, too. Peculiar.

His mind went over the time he'd spared her life. She understood his motivation. But what was hers? Why save him? Sure, he was a valuable asset- but not _that_ valuable. There had to be another reason. For just an instant, he wondered if she saw something in him. He shook his head, denying that thought. No.. that wouldn't be proper.

He was very thankful for the familiar ring of his cell. There was no reason to call him unless there was a contract. He sat at his desk with anticipation. Honestly, he wasn't fond of downtime. Sure, he could train- but that only served as amusement for so long.

As he thought, Diana's familiar voice brightly greeted him, as always. "Hello, 47. We have a contract for you." Even as she spoke, he moved to his Bluetooth and opened up his laptop. His voice was as calm and collected as ever. "Who's the target?" He was already bringing up the file, but she would brief him regardless. It simply seemed polite.

He almost smiled when she began the briefing. She'd been his handler for a while now, sans a five and a half year break. But he rather enjoyed listening to her tell him the mission details. Sure, he had other handlers before Diana, and even during his break from the Agency, but she seemed to have become an integral part of his routine. Her smooth English accent was almost comforting. Back to work- and glad of it.


	4. 3- Business in the Bayou

Louisiana, mid-day. And it was summer. 47 instantly regretted the trademark suit. He didn't always wear it- sometimes needing BDUs, sometimes winter gear. There was little reason for his jungle gear, but it sure as Hell felt like there was. He gently tugged at a sleeve with a gloved hand. If he was lucky, he could keep this assignment short. Due to the circumstances, he had only the tools and weapons he could easily conceal. That meant only a few anesthetic syringes, his knives, and fiber wire. Not much- but he'd worked with far less.

His target was a well-off businessman based out of Morgan City. Not a major city by any means, and his homestead to the South-East only served his desires. He was as corrupt as they come- a drug-dealer with ties in Columbia. Louisiana was fairly unassuming, and it was easy to hide out here. But the mosquitoes were terrible. Honestly, as the more hot, humid parts of America went, he was mildly fond of Florida and a few states along the Eastern Coast. Not that he ever took vacations, but he actually rather enjoyed running on the beach. Sand was difficult. A challenge.

Then again- so was swamp. But it sure wasn't as pleasant. He sneered down at the mud already collecting on his shoes as he walked. Cleaning from these locations was expensive and tedious. At least sand was typically easy. Swamp-mud was tenacious- especially on Italian leather. Yes- finish quickly, and be done with this place. Perhaps travel up North in the states until his next mission. Maybe Maine.

After that train of thought was erased for now, he concentrated on the task at hand. His information had already given him the location. He would simply have to slip in unseen, kill his target, and leave. Unseen was the problem, though. Not many here wore his ensemble- not in this heat. He would need to grab one of the workers, maybe. It wasn't an uncommon practice. There was always caretakers for these rich types. People to tend the land so the boss didn't need to dirty his hands.

47 strode purposefully, but calmly, off the beaten path, so as not to be noticed. It was quite the walk, but it would mean no one would find his transportation.

The homestead came into view as he made his way, and he paused to survey the area, piercing blue eyes taking in every detail. The main building was a very light, almost white, gray, with dark bluish-gray accents and doors. It was a decently sized one-story home with a high muted brown-gray roof. On the grounds was a small stable with a pig sty, and a somewhat decent barracks-like building that probably housed the maintenance workers.

The grounds were flat, nestled neatly inside a perimeter of small hills and tall shrubs and grasses common to the area. Other shrubs and flowers were planted close to the house, hugging the open walkway-deck that surrounded the building, held up by thin square pillars. Not a lot of cover to work with. He would have to be cautious. Perhaps even wait for the cover of darkness.

There were people out tending to the needs of the horses, a few others trimming hedges and grasses, and one who was repairing the sprinkler of them were currently accessible. He could also discern some activities at the house- people talking on the deck, other moving around inside. His target wasn't insight, so he figured the man was inside.

 _Darkness, then_ , 47 thought to himself. For now, he silently slid back out of range of his vision to do some recon of the perimeter.

When he moved in, it was just barely dark enough not to be seen, the waning crescent moon giving just enough light to see without a flashlight in the remote countryside- at least for 47. The hitman made his way onto the grounds of his target's homestead from the East, nearest the stable. He would have to be very quiet to not spook the animals, but it would give him an opportunity to snatch up one of the late-night workers who preferred animals over people.

The man he spotted was burly and gruff- his muscular torso covered by a thin blue cotton work shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Blue jeans, dark brown, dirty boots, and a simple but sturdy tool belt finished off his outfit. The man himself was nearly as pale as 47, and stood only a few inches taller, dark messy hair almost obstructing his muddy brown eyes. His features were rough, with a square jaw, scruffy cleft chin, and defined brow-line.

Currently, the worker was carrying out a bucket full of dirty water to spill it into adjoining pig sty. 47 slowly pulled out a syringe, and made his way toward the man very slowly, footfalls practiced and silent as he closed the distance. The poor guy never knew what hit him.

In an instant, 47's left hand was clasped onto the man's mouth, while the other stabbed the syringe into the crook of his neck to dose him with the sedative. He quickly recovered the needle-jab, using it to now hold the man as still as possible while the sedative took effect. Once unconscious, 47 dragged the man into the stable to put him into one of the empty stables. Only after he was satisfied no one would find him did he slip off the poor sap's clothes, and switch out his suit for the disguise. It wasn't a perfect fit, but he would deal with the slight bagginess.

He moved towards the main house now, footfalls still silent as he strode, looking as though he belonged there. It was, after all, one of his many talents, to appear as though he belonged, no matter the disguise. On rare occasions, he even had to act 'normal.' Or, at least, normal for the person he was portraying. However, speaking as little as possible and avoiding as many people as he could would be the preferred method- and the one he would use here, if at all possible.

Despite his skills, he would have to admit that the infiltration was rather the easier part of the job. People were much more paranoid, usually, on the way back out. It wasn't the entry or the kill that made him apprehensive- but the escape.

The house's interior was as lavish as he'd imagined, and he took in the first room in an instant. He'd come from the back, through the kitchen area. No one was here now, as the house had already supped, and were now socializing in various parts of the building.

For a time, he quietly made his way through the building, using his enhanced senses to study the people within. In the main foyer, where he stood hidden, he could clearly hear each conversation, and one, in particular, drew his attention.

"So y'think Bettencourt's been taken in by that maid? I can't believe he just went to his room with her like that," said one.

"You know him- his tastes tend to be for the submissive ones. He's probably over there fucking her brains out." They both got a good laugh.

So his target was in his private chambers. Thomas Bettencourt was a lech. It didn't surprise him, and made the hit much easier. It might even help him with the time it would take to find his body.

47 left the foyer, and calculated his best route up to the private rooms. There would be guards patrolling the hallways- he would have to avoid them if he wanted to remain undetected. Difficult, but not impossible.

Silent steps carried him to a corner, and he peeked around it carefully. There was a guard headed down- away from him. Quietly, but swiftly, he crept into the hall, towards the master room. As the guard began to look as though he would turn, the hitman slipped into one of the side rooms. It was blissfully unoccupied, so he kept watch through the keyhole, waiting for the guard to walk past.

Once satisfied that the guard would now not hear him make his way down the hall, he exited the room. He took it quietly, though- just in case. Another corner. At the end of this hall was the master room- and a guard at his door. He'd need another way in. Or a distraction. For now, he would slink into another room so as not to be spotted by the patrolling guard.

For a moment, he stood, thinking- calculating- predicting. He knew how to make an effective distraction- he just had to think of the best approach to the window. His attention turned to watching the shadow of a guard walk past on the exterior balcony. It was dangerous to walk the exterior, as well-lit as it was. But he had few options, and it would allow him to get closer to the master room.

Silently, he raised the window open. He quickly investigated the exterior, then slipped out to walk behind the patrolling guard. His feet kept in-step with the man in front of him, so that he would not be prone to looking behind him. As the guard turned the corner around the building, 47 went to the smaller window closer to the master room. It was too dangerous to enter the main bedroom window. Once he was satisfied no one was inside, he quietly entered through the window.

He was mistaken about the small room being completely empty. There was a passed-out drunkard asleep on the floor. He hadn't quite made it to the bed. No worries here- the drunkard would sleep like the dead anyway. But perhaps this man could aid him regardless. A quick scan of the room proved useful. The entry into the room was narrow enough to prop himself against the upper wall. He could use an ambush tactic for the guards by the main room door. But he had to time it flawlessly to avoid the patrolling guard, so he waited- watching through the keyhole.

Once satisfied with the timing, he plucked the sleeping figure from the floor, propped him by the door, and prepared to spring into action quickly. The next few moments were a flurry of action. He flung the door open, shoving the man out hard. In the next instant, 47 used the walls by the door to scale up and press himself as much against the ceiling as he could. He knew well that the noise and drunkard would swiftly draw attention to the room- which was exactly what he wanted.

Silently, he laid in wait, even slowing his breathing. Footsteps closed in. Good. He'd drawn in both of them.

"You alright, Paulie?" asked one.

"Man, look at him! He's drunker than yer mum!" said the other.

The two guards helped eachother carry the man back into the room, one on each shoulder. The instant they were far enough in, 47 closed the door and dropped down. Before the two could really figure out their mistake, he quickly slid two syringes of anesthetic out and jabbed each of them in the neck with one. One of them grabbed onto his shirt, and slid down against him.

47 pulled the man away, and did his best to hide the two guards on the other side of the bed. He had to act quickly.

Silently, he pried the door back open, and slunk into the hall. Checking for the guard, he picked the lock of the master room as quickly as he could. His heart pounded with the adrenaline, but he managed to maintain his focus. He was out of anesthetic- so he hoped the pair inside were finished with coitus and happily asleep. No reason for the maid to see this.

He slipped into the room as quietly as he could, gently shutting the door behind him. Making certain he was unheard, he moved towards the bed slowly. No room for mistakes now. Thankfully, both were fast asleep. 47 softly took one of the pillows as he closed in on his target. Quickly, he shoved the pillow into the man's face, holding it down until he was certain the target had breathed his last.

Satisfied that the maid was drugged up, and thus would not awaken, he made his way back out of the room a great deal more quickly, closing the door behind him. He took the same route as the patrolling guard had, slowing down so as to not appear suspicious. If the guards were found missing before he got out of the building, escape would be next to impossible.

Casually, he made his way out, barely avoiding detection by the exterior guards as he made his way back towards the stables. He didn't take a straight line- that might prove a bit too conspicuous. Instead, he made for the grass-line as though he was going over for a smoke break.

The moment he wasn't in sight anymore, he slid into the brush, and quickened his pace. As he entered the stable, he could hear alarmed shouts from the house. He switched back into his suit, and made his way out the same way he'd come in. They would never even know who had taken out those guards and killed their master.

As he left in his transport, he called into the Agency to report the mission's success. It wasn't Diana who answered- not entirely unusual. Sometimes, she was busy elsewhere.

"47. Valerie from Agency here. Diana had a family emergency." It wasn't something she was supposed to tell him. "I assume you've completed your assignment?"

"Yes." _Family emergency? Why is she telling me?_ He didn't pry, but he did reprimand the handler. "And Valerie. Do keep personal information out of business in the future." He hung up on her. _Foolish girl._

He didn't know that Diana's family emergency had turned into a personal emergency.


	5. 4- Capture

Diana frowned deeply at a letter she held. It seemed that her brother was in trouble in Chicago. It wasn't unusual enough to know he was in trouble with someone, somewhere- but it was rare that he addressed her in one of his letters specifically. Usually, he sent them to their wealthy parents, so they could bail him out of jail or debt.

This time was different. Her brother's note was a great deal more concerning.

'Dear Diana,

Seems I can't turn to mum and pa on this one, sis. I've fallen in deep with some bad people. Long story short- I owe money to a crime syndicate based out of Chicago. One of my contacts here told me that he knew you, through a mutual friend. So maybe you can do something about it, yeah?

Anyways, I gotta go. They're closing in on me now. I just hope my pal can get this to you. Please, sis. I'm a dead man without your help.

~Charlie'

 _Godammit, Charlie,_ Diana chastised internally. Her eyes focused more onto the information that someone there knew her somehow. The only friend she had that had been to Chicago within the last two years was 47, and she wasn't sure he much counted as a friend. But it did make her think of 47's contact there- the one who'd helped him find Victoria. "Birdie," she snipped.

If her brother was in deep with Chicago criminals, Birdie was a logical conclusion to his contact. But how did Birdie know she was connected to 47? It was disconcerting. But the man seemed genuinely able to help. Family troubles were always complicated.

She quickly grabbed her things and left for Chicago proper. Since she lived nearby, it wouldn't be a long drive.

Birdie was exactly what she expected. He was a Chicago local living out of an old shack, since moving away from the old bus 47 had stolen. He was a lanky man with curly black hair, and covered in.. well.. bird scat. Not surprising, with how many birds dwelled in this old shack with him. If it wasn't for her brother, she would never meet a man like this face-to-face. But she, unlike 47, didn't have his contact information. She'd had to seek him out.

"Birdie. You must be Charlie's contact." Diana was straight to business. She didn't want to be around this man any longer than necessary.

"'Eeeyyy! Little lady- you must be the famous Diana!" His tone was chipper as he gave a creepy grin her way. "Gotta admit- didn't think you'd come. Thought you'd send the pitbull." He chuckled a bit.

"47 isn't my lap dog, Birdie. We only work together. What do you know about my brother?" This wasn't 47's business- it was hers. And he was on assignment anyway. She didn't have a clue why Birdie expected the one seeing him would be the hitman.

"Aw, Diana. Sure 'e is. Word is, that fella Travis had it out fer th' both of ya. So you went rogue. That's what I heard." He continued to grin at her. "As fer your brother- well." He outstretched his arms as he stood up. "'Fraid that was just my way of getting one of ya here."

Too late, she heard the footsteps outside. This had been a trap. One set for 47 or for her, it didn't matter. She was surrounded, with no escape, and only a can of pepper spray and a small 9mm pistol. Bugger.

"I suggest ya go with 'em quietly."

"47 is going to kill you for this, Birdie."

"Not if we kill him first, little lady."

She sighed, and turned to face the door, as though waiting. In the moments before the police came in to get her, she sent 47 a message.

'Birdie's a traitor.' was all it said. She knew that 47 could easily figure out who Birdie had betrayed them to. So he would know where she was. It was unlikely that he'd rescue her- but he would at least silence her. And Birdie would die.


	6. 5- A Bullet for Birdie

47 stood in front of a mirror, gawking at his new, more elaborate disguise. Birdie would easily recognize him. No doubt, Cosmo would as well. He had to not look like Agent 47, the legendary hitman. Instead, he looked like an average New York private investigator. It was his cover, after all. To hide his tattoo and bald head, he had dawned a Hollywood-quality wig of short black hair, slicked back. It was glued on, and would be Hell to pry off after this was done- but it was more convincing. The same could be said for the matching false goatee. Both were made of donated human hair, and would be real enough to fool anyone. Even his eyebrows were trimmed down to be slimmer, with a small curve and soft edges. Even _he_ didn't recognize himself. Especially in the chocolate brown off-the-rack suit that didn't even bother trying to hide the single Colt .45 he was carrying in a standard-issue nylon shoulder holster. The shirt under the jacket was eggshell white with slightly darker stripes that went both vertical and horizontal, enough space between them to not look goofy.

On his hands, thin almost-black cotton gloves- his excuse for them that he was germaphobic. In fact, he even carried a slightly-used bottle of hand sanitizer and a handkerchief for full effect. The outfit easily hid his fiberwire and two knives. Sure, he'd be in trouble if they found the wire, but his false credentials gave him a CCW for the rest. They wouldn't be getting his fingerprints, not that it would come up with anything. However, the lack of something was more suspicious than criminal history. He'd have to be extra cautious.

The hotel he'd picked was quaint. It wasn't high-end or run-down. In fact, it was positively middle-class. It was only two rooms- the main and a small bathroom, but he liked it that way. The windows had good blinds, and the layout was easy to watch. He even had a fire escape as a secondary route out. He'd chosen a chair set up in a corner on the far side only slightly near a window. That would be where he slept- _if_ he slept.

He'd brought along an unassuming brown briefcase, ever-so-slightly too thick for just papers. It housed his tools, including Silverballers, underneath a false inner lining- black, to look more spacious. Inside the false housing were his 'personal effects:' A manila folder with his fake case; One travel toothbrush and an unopened small paste; Three books- Sherlock Holmes, an Agatha Christie novel, and a notebook with a pen in the spiral. He even had a small knickknack of the Statue of Liberty, to remind him of 'home.'

In addition to the case- lead-lined for his tools- he had carted around a rolling bag containing extra clothing and underwear. Just a typical traveling private-eye. He had moved the clothing into the hotel's closet and dresser- not that he would be using the bed. But he would make it appear like he had.

He undid the top button of his shirt. No tie for this persona. He took a long breath, steadying himself, then slouched ever-so-slightly to the left. A bad knee, apparently. With everything in order, he finally set out into the city. He had a little Birdie to hunt down.

It didn't take too long to find birdie, and he was almost dumbstruck by the simplicity. The small man was walking into an old building- probably to meet with Cosmo concerning him. It was public enough to be high-profile, but private enough not to be overheard amongst the rustling city and busy street outside.

47 observed his surroundings carefully, and quickly made a decision to take a position in the next building. It was abandoned- he'd have to slip in unseen. Of course- that was his specialty. He anticipated that Birdie would choose a room facing this building, because no prying eyes were there to watch the meeting. It was also easy to keep an eye on, which increased the difficulty for the assassin.

He was familiar with adversity, though. Before leaving, he'd removed one of his Silverballers from the case, and twisted on the silencer. He'd worn this heavier jacket to hide the gun perched along his spine. 47 would kill Birdie with his signature pistol, because the ballistics wouldn't match his Colt, which was registered to his current name: Charles Vaughn. He would have to retrieve the bullet from the Chicago PD, but he was already planning to go there. He had to. Birdie had given them evidence- evidence he needed to erase. And they had Diana- no doubt trying to squeeze her for information. He knew she wouldn't talk. But he also knew she could easily get lost in the legal system. Plenty of corruption there- a farse, if anyone asked him.

Carefully, silently, he made his way up to a perch just out of view. Just barely, though. He could peek around and see them- but unless they looked very closely, they wouldn't see him. He knew Birdie was paranoid- but thankfully, he was also cocky. 47 would wait until his back was to the window. For now, he slid the Silverballer out from its hiding spot, and waited.

Birdie, at last, turned to Cosmo with his arms outstretched. He thought he held all the cards in this meeting. It was the only opportunity he had. The vision of him by Cosmo would be mostly blocked by Birdie. He slunk around the corner, leveled the pistol out as he evened himself against the dilapidated wall without touching it, settled it on Birdie's skull, and squeezed the trigger. He didn't have time to dawdle. He quickly snatched up the bullet casing, slid the Silverballer into place, and made his way out. He simply joined the people on the street, casually walking away.

He would have to return to the hotel to put the pistol back and grab his fake. But first, he stopped in at a small eatery, as if that was where he'd planned to go the entire time. This was only a quarter-mile from the hotel- it was a decent excuse. After he'd eaten the rather flavorless food, he returned to the hotel. Police were scouring the area near the building he'd been at before. He'd have to dispose of his current shoes, as they were like fingerprints. But that could be for later. Police were always too swamped, and no one had any leads.

Once he'd changed shoes, hid away the pistol, and grabbed the file, he headed out to the precinct with his discernible limp. At the desk, he asked for the guy who was after the tall bald man with the tattoo, his practiced Brooklyn accent flawless. He was directed to Cosmo, as he thought he would be. Cosmo was busy filing paperwork- he'd been on-scene. He'd even had to give his clothing to Evidence from the spatter- this was obvious from the standard-issue gym clothes most police used when working out in the small precinct gym.

"I don't have time for another case right now, Mister...?" Cosmo prompted the tall man for a name.

47 slipped a card out from an inner pocket of his jacket, and handed it to the much darker-skinned officer. "Charles Vaughn, private investigator. I'm based out of New York, but I believe we have a common problem, Mister Faulkner. Your tall Caucasian male with the tattoo on the back of his head? He recently eliminated my client's husband."

That got Cosmo's attention. He set down his pen, and took the card. It was cheaply made like most private-eyes he knew. "Let me guess- you were investigating the bald man, and saw the incident he created here in the paper. Well- I'm pretty sure he isn't here. Sorry to disappoint you."

47 shook his head, and tossed Cosmo the file. "I'm betting that incident I saw on the way here was a murder. Too much CSU and police presence for much else. And I'm betting you found the bullet. Hand-made fullmetal jacket .45ACP round, am I right?"

Cosmo stared at the man. "Ballistics hasn't come back on the round yet. How the Hell did you know all that?"

"I listen. I observe. It's what makes a great detective. Or investigator, in my case. Never could pass the physical for law enforcement." 47 offered a smile, trying not to make it seem forced or awkward. "We found a similar round at our scene. Go ahead and have a look."

Cosmo opened the file, and searched it for the picture of the round- sure enough- .45ACP, fullmetal jacket. The rifling seemed odd, too. "I'm thinking this came out of a custom pistol. I'll see if I can get a rush-job on the ballistics." And he did, in fact, call down to Forensics to have them rush it as fast as possible- even had a runner come get the photo."You don't mind, right?"

"I wouldn't have come here if I minded, Mister Faulkner." 47's tone was conversational- he could be an effective conversationalist when the need arose. "I thought you and I could work together. Two heads better than one and all that."

"Please- call me Cosmo. And I agree. We don't usually work with civilians- but it seems you and I are after a ghost. We can use all the help we can get." He was completely unaware that he was talking to that very ghost. But 47 wasn't here to kill him- not unless he needed to. It was unclear what all Birdie had told him. Though, he did notice the barest edge of a sketch.

"Charles,." he offered in return. "Is that him?" 47 gestured to the sketch. Cosmo pulled it out and handed it to him.

"Sure is. Sketch artist sat down with Birdie. He's the one who died today- our only link to this.. Mr. 47."

47 had to admit- the drawing was fairly accurate. Almost accurate enough to make a 3D render and use facial recognition software. Almost. "Damn. Looks like a mean summabitch." He handed the sketch back. "Any hits?"

"No. Mr. 47 is practically non-existent. Birdie said he's a legend- a hitman with a flawless record. He knows how to stay off the radar. Birdie gave us a connection of his, who was visiting the states. He got her here somehow- we didn't ask how. But she's not talking." The runner came and got the photo, walking off in a hurry.

"A girl?"

"Yeah. British, we think. Name's Diana. He said she's Mr. 47's handler. Gives him contracts. She's as much guilty as that bald bastard, but we've got nothing on her. Keeping her for terrorist connections. Birdie told us she works for the International Contract Agency- that super-secret firm that went public a while ago. I hear they didn't find anything, but you can never be too careful, right?"

"That's right." 47 took a seat across from Cosmo, and leaned back. "Mr. 47, huh? So we have a ghost with a number, a dead snitch, and a silent Brit. That's almost square zero."

"I know. Birdie was going to share the safehouses he knew of, along with Mr. 47's cell. That's when he took a bullet to the skull." The phone rang. It wasn't a long process to match a bullet photo to a bullet, or to identify the make. Identifying the gun would be much more difficult. Cosmo answered, and scowled, nodding. "Yeah. Thanks." He hung up, and leaned forward, head in his hands as he stared with intent into 47's altered-color eyes. Thy were brown, thanks to contact lenses. "Looks like your bullet came from the same gun as ours."

47 resisted the urge to tell him he already knew that. Instead, he made an excited 'yeah' gesture with his right hand. "Aw, man! I knew it! Bastard's back in Chicago!"

Cosmo sighed. "Thanks for pointing that out. We have a hitman in town. Not really something to be excited about. But what made you think he'd come back here?"

"What made _you_ think he _wouldn't_? Loose ends, Cosmo. Loose ends. That Birdie gave up a hitman. I don't think someone like this Mr. 47 wouldn't notice something like that- do you?"

Cosmo's eyes widened a bit, and he sat back. Charles had a point. And because he didn't think that man would come back here, Birdie was dead. At least they still had Diana. "Shit. We gotta turn the girl." He stood up.

47 also stood. "Mind if I watch?"

"Couldn't hurt. Hell, maybe _you_ could get something out of her. She's here for terrorism. We don't have to go purely by-the-book. C'mon." Cosmo gave a call to bring Diana up, and headed to one of the interrogation rooms.

This was dangerous. Interrogations were recorded. 47 would have to get the recording also. He was too close now. He would err on the side of caution, and keep up his ruse. Diana would see right through it, but she would know not to give him away. She was more the type to see his facial features, even through the disguise.

Diana was brought in. Cosmo sat with 47's file and his own in front of him at the table. 47 was leaning on the wall, favoring his left leg.

Cosmo motioned for her to sit, and she did. He slid the sketch towards her. "You know this man, don't you, Diana?"

She hadn't even noticed 47 yet, really. She was calm, staring right at Cosmo, her lithe hands resting on the table. But she didn't speak.

47 did. "We can cut you a deal if you give him up, you know." He was pretending to be a P.I. pretending to be a cop. It was actually somewhat amusing.

Diana's glance moved to the second man in the room for the first time. The way he looked at her. That strong jawline. She instantly knew who it was. She'd have to congratulate him later on the disguise. If she didn't know him so well, she wouldn't have even recognized him. Though, she'd never imagined him with hair before. It looked odd on him. However, she easily hid the recognition, turning her glance into a glare. "Even if I told you who he was, you wouldn't find him." Her English accent was a stark contrast to the both of them. She almost felt out of place.

"So you _do_ know." Cosmo pointed out.

Diana scowled at him. "I know."

"Do you know how to find him?" The question came from 47, and she very nearly laughed. It turned into a scoff. She was definitely good at this.

"If I did, I wouldn't tell you."

"Why not?" inquired Cosmo.

"Because he'd have to kill you." Her tone was dark, muddy green eyes burning into Cosmo. He could instantly tell that she was dead serious. "Anyone who knows too much dies or disappears. You think that's a coincidence?"

Cosmo frowned at her. "We can take care of ourselves." He paused, and slid the files towards her, opening them. "Your his handler, right?"

"If I say anything, he'll kill me, too. Your custody isn't as safe as you think." That much was true. Cosmo didn't even know that the very man they spoke of was standing right behind him. 47 could easily kill Cosmo right now, if it struck his fancy.

"Gimme _something_ , girl." said 47, forcing concern onto his sharp features.

"No. Do what you want with me. Anything you have will be ten times better than having him after me again." Diana gingerly rubbed the scar 47 had given her. Bullet wound- through-and-through. But it still hurt now and then.

"Again?" Cosmo, this time.

"He shot me once. But he didn't kill me. A reminder not to mess with him, probably." That was a lie. She knew exactly why 47 had shot her. And that wasn't really it. She'd 'betrayed' the Agency. Betrayed _him_. But he chose not to kill her, and to protect Victoria at her request. Their trust ran deep. It was probably why the Agency hadn't outright fired the both of them, despite playing loose with the rules. They were too effective.

"So you should want to get him back for that." Cosmo pointed out.

"It was my own fault. No one crosses 47 and lives. You should remember that. Can I go?"

Cosmo sighed. She wasn't giving him anything they didn't know- but at least she admitted to her involvement. Better to be locked up than hunted, he guessed. "Alright."

Only when she was gone did he turn to face Charles. "She's scared to death of this guy. She's not going to roll on him. We need another angle." He stood, collected the files, and headed out, 47 hot on his heels. He needed to act fast- before Diana was all the way back down in the cells. As soon as they entered the hallway, and 47 assured no one but him, Cosmo, and the ones carting off Diana were there, he quickly grabbed Cosmo from behind, covering his mouth and choking him unconscious. Even Diana didn't hear Cosmo being settled onto the floor.

47 swiftly moved to walk behind the guards that were walking her down the hall. He had to get to them before the next corner- there would be guards there to watch the entry to the small cellblock in the station. He slipped two syringes of anesthetic from his jacket, and quickly jabbed both of them in one swift motion. They barely made a sound. He plucked the key from one of them, and unlocked Diana's restraints. She was just awe-struck. She'd never really watched him work before. He was so quick- professional. It was hard not to see the danger he could pose. With ease, she could sit at a desk and hand him names.. but watching him dispose of cops in the middle of a police precinct? That scared the shit out of her.

47 moved into the room by interrogation, quickly taking out both men inside with hand-to-hand maneuvers. Once he had the tape, he went to Cosmo and picked up the files. Now he only needed to get her out and get the bullet from Forensics. He shoved the files at her. Diana snatched them up, hugging them to her. He silently motioned for her to follow, and lead her out the back, where he temporarily disabled the fire alarm linked to the door. "Head to my hotel." He handed her the key- it wouldn't be hard to find. He also gave her cab fare. "Wait for me there. Go." Diana didn't argue.

The assassin made his way down to the Forensics lab. "Yo, fellas! How's it goin'? Got the model on that gun yet?"

The lead officer and one busy assistant was all there were right then. The lead officer, a lanky man with wavy brown hair and hazel eyes, simply glared at him. "You aren't supposed to be here."

47 gave alight chuckle. "We're all on the same side here. Gimme a break. Cosmo's busy, and I came to see how the identification was goin'."

The lanky man groaned audibly, obviously too overworked to argue further. "Not sure. Could be a custom Colt. Could be an AMT Hardballer. Hard to tell. Whoever made it customized everything. Even down to the rifling. Without the gun, we won't be able to match it to the killer."

47 raised a brow. The AMT Hardballer was basically a clone of a Colt. Even thinking about the slight differences was impressive. Telling them apart was hard with just a bullet. And his pistols were, indeed, customized Hardballers. Not bad. "Can I see?"

"Knock yourself out." The man walked over to start working on something else. This was a dead end- he'd file it into evidence later. Too much to do.

47 moved over to where the bullet lie in a Petri dish. For a moment, he pretended to observe the round. Then, with a graceful swoop of his hand, he quickly snatched it up, and left. It was in his pocket long before he was seen by the desk cast her a charming smile. "I'm gonna snatch a bite to eat. Be back in a bit." She just waved him off.

The skilled hitman took a cab back to the hotel, glad to have this over with. Sure- he still had to get Diana back to England, but she could take care of herself. He wasn't too concerned.

Diana was sitting on the edge of the messy bed when he returned, the files neatly stacked beside her. She just gazed at him as he entered the room, as if moving too much would garner her an unfavorable amount of attention.

47 moved to the closet to pack up. He'd only unpacked to give the cleaning lady no excuse to be snoopy.

"Will we be leaving, then?" Diana's voice was soft- almost a whisper. But she knew 47 had enhanced senses. He would hear her bloody heartbeat, which thumped noisily along, as well as her voice.

"Yes." He answered simply.

"Was rescuing me part of the mission?"

47 looked at her for a long moment before going back to packing. "Yes."

She seemed almost relieved. He hadn't rescued her for himself, at least. "You have my passport?"

47 nodded, and went to dig out the passport from his briefcase. He'd kept it with his tools, so it would be hidden from prying eyes. He tossed it over, then finished up his packing. He was a man of few words- but she knew that already. Especially on the job, 47 was all business.

"You're leaving in that?" She pointed to him, meaning his disguise.

He gave a grunt. "Better that they see Charles Vaughn run off, than the bald man they're looking for."

"I guess." After a few long, uncomfortable moments, she stood up and gave him the files so he could slip them into the briefcase. "You know- I think I know now why you shave. You look rather odd with hair."

47 just looked at her, his usual cold gaze seeming to bare down on her. "I don't."

She just gawked at him. "You never shave? How the Hell do you stay bald?" Sure, his glance frightened her. But she was curious now.

"No body hair, no evidence. Genetic engineering at its finest. But you already knew that."

"You have eyebrows." She pointed out. "And yes- I knew about the engineering. But I didn't know they made you practically hairless."

"Eyebrows don't shed much. And when they do, it's almost always onto the face or clothing. Nothing to leave behind. And it would look stranger without them. I also have to blend in," he noted back coldly.

She huffed. "I think a bald guy with a barcode for a tattoo kind of stands out."

"You'd be right, if I acted oddly. But I know how to seem like I belong." He picked up his case, and gave her the bag.

It was probably best to not be seen without a bag on an international flight, so Diana took it. "You've already arranged the flight, then?"

"The Agency did. We have open tickets to board whenever we wish." 47 went to open the door for her. "Let's go."

The Agency could pull serious strings, but that was pretty typical. Diana walked out, and watched him as he locked the door behind them. She then followed him down to drop off the key, then onto the street to hail a cab. They would have a fairly long flight to chat, but she figured he wouldn't be doing much talking.

She was right.


	7. 6- Flight and Landing

The flight was quiet enough, as she thought it would be. She was sat next to 47 in the business class of the international plane. It made a stop in New York to fuel before heading off to London. She watched him for a long time, figuring he'd fallen asleep. He'd had to pack up his Colt- while he was allowed to have it, they wouldn't let it in the passenger area. Just a matter-of-course. She doubted they'd even found his knives.

Curious as to whether or not he was, in fact, asleep, she slowly waved a hand in front of his face. It was a mistake, and she instantly regretted it.

47's eyes snapped open, and his quick reflexes snatched up her arm, ready to break it before she could even react to his movement. It didn't take him long to realize it was her, and he released her arm. It would probably still bruise. 47 was almost inhumanly strong. He took a long breath, releasing it slowly, and cast her a terribly intimidating glance. "Don't ever do that again."

Diana rubbed at her wrist, frowning up at him. It was almost hard to take him seriously with the damn wig. But she knew better. So why had she done it? Maybe she had been curious about just how shallow he slept, or just how fast he was. Both were surprising. "Or what, you'll break my arm?" she teased.

47's glance focused forward again."Yes." His answer and tone made a knot appear in her stomach, and dry up her throat. He was serious.

"You need to learn to take it easy."

"Taking it easy gets you killed."

She couldn't argue.

The rest of the flight was spent in silence. Diana fell asleep, and eventually slumped against the warmth of the tall man beside her. 47 simply gave her a gentle shove that moved her against the wall instead, and he went back to resting until they landed.

The jolt of the landing snapped Diana out of her slumber with a start. In that instant, she could almost swear 47 smirked at her. Asshole. But she gave him a playful glare regardless.

He didn't even respond to it. Any semblance of an expression was wiped clean as they coasted into the airport. As soon as he could, he was up and out, Diana in tow. He collected his briefcase and handed Diana the bag again. Once they were out of the airport, a black car pulled up for them. It was still a few hours drive to the first destination- Diana's home.

"47, why did you take this contract? It's a rule not to meet with your handler in person- let alone retrieve them."

"Since when do you care about that rule?"

Sadly, he had a point. It was always Diana that sought him out or had him contact her in person- never him. "I'm surprised they even let you have it, actually. I may not care- but they do."

47 glanced out the window. "I requested it."

That caught her off-guard. "You did?" She sounded like she didn't even believe him.

He scrunched his nose slightly. "Yes."

"And they just let you have it?"

Annoyed at the contacts, he finally removed them, sliding them into his pocket before glancing at her with those piercing blue eyes she knew all too well. "I threatened to quit."

She had to laugh. It was just funny. 47 quitting? Ridiculous. It was an empty threat, but the Agency couldn't afford to lose him. They'd had many an annoyed client for the two years he disappeared. "You've gone insane."

He rolled his eyes a bit, and looked forward. "Maybe," he admitted. But he couldn't let anyone else complete this mission. Someone else may have done it wrong.

The driver finally grunted at them. "You know you two shouldn't be talking about the mission. This is highly inappropriate."

The rest of the trip was spent in silence. The driver let Diana out at her house, then drove 47 to his nearby safehouse. He could easily get anywhere from there, after all. No words were exchanged. 47 simply took his things inside.


	8. 7- Normality

Everything was back to normal after her rescue from Chicago PD. Well- as normal as it ever was as a handler. Diana Burnwood gazed down at the intel she'd pass onto one of the three agents she oversaw. Most handlers had more agents to oversee- typically heavier caseloads. But they also didn't have 47. So many requests came in for him that she rejected at least eighty percent of the contracts coming onto her desk.

The other two agents she had under her were pretty much newbies. Not a lot of contracts to give them. But once in awhile, an easy one crossed her desk, like the one she was looking over now. 47 would dismiss it as not even worth his time. But the newbies would relish the chance to prove themselves. She only had to choose who to send it to.

Once she made up her mind on the agent of choice, she made the call. "Hello, Benjamin. This is Diana from Agency..."

The day passed as most days for her did. An easy mission passed to Benjamin, an expensive and dangerous mission to 47 (who consistently insisted he could handle it), and lunch at the local Delicatessen. Victoria was gone- off to law school. Which meant that she would be alone once she got home.

After she'd finished with her work at her fake office (she changed locations regularly, but had to keep up a cover), she decided to walk home. She wasn't exactly looking forward to going home to an empty flat.

A few days passed before she heard word that 47's contract had been completed. No surprise. He usually worked quickly. She contacted him as usual when he closed out a contract and he didn't call in himself.

When he picked up, she spoke. He was never one to initiate dialog on the line. She could have easily been a telemarketer with a random number caller program. "Hello, 47. Good work so far. I thought you should know that we found a secondary target for you, if you're interested. Same client."

"Depends on the target." His voice sounded tired. Maybe even tinged with cranky.

"Did I wake you?"

"I haven't slept. Target?"

She sighed, and forwarded him the intel. "Frederick Bathory. He's a business associate of your last target, only twelve kilometers away from your current location." She continued giving him the details of the target- how many people worked for him- the satellite imaging- perimeter details from recon. Everything he'd need. When she finished, she gave a deep frown. "And 47..."

He gave her a soft 'mm' query noise that prompted her to speak again. "Get some sleep first."

"I will." Click.

 _Not much one for goodbyes, either,_ she mused. Indeed- he never bid her farewell. He just disconnected the line. It had probably frustrated his other handlers. She was used to it.

The next day went like the one before, though less busy, since she only had one agent not on assignment currently. It gave her time to catch up on paperwork.

She went about her routine, smiling a bit at what, exactly, she considered normal anymore. Ever since she joined up with the Agency, life had become a great deal more interesting. Her very first dossier had been full of so much black that she'd had no idea what she had even been given. 47. At the time, so much of his past- so much of who he was- had been a mystery. She didn't have the clearance as a greenhorn.

Why they even gave him to her with her clearance, she wasn't sure. Even now, all she remembered from the first time she saw his file was the _lack_ of information within it. Just a number, a photo, and some basic information. She, like most, had assumed the number to have been some sort of code, like 007 was for James Bond. But what really stood out were his eyes. They were intense, deep set into his angular features under thick dark brows- and a blue so light they almost seemed to glow under the lighting conditions where he'd had the photo taken for the Agency ID.

No one outside the Agency knew what he looked like. Most didn't even know he existed. For two years, she had zero access to anything but his contact info. She contacted him with contracts, and he accepted every last one she passed on, as though he had no other life. At the time, she hadn't known that he didn't. When she finally got her clearance settled, she was surprised to see that '47' was a name taken from the barcode tattooed on the back of his head. It was, in fact, the only name he'd ever known.

As she sat eating her panini, she thought about the first time she met 47 in person. They hadn't even really seen eachother. She'd simply passed him a physical file. But communications had been dangerous then. He was always pointing out that meeting in person was dangerous, too. But she felt she knew what she was doing.

Another meeting had been when she delivered a file and specific poison to him by hand. There had been a mole, then- and she'd had to use that same poison on him. It had been the only time she'd seen him fully face-to-face, standing at his door, about to stab a needle in his neck. He'd trusted her implicitly. But she needed to save him. He'd since forgiven her.

The time after that was when he shot her. All she could remember about then, really, was the pistol aimed at her skull that he never fired. And his eyes as he leaned over her- concerned for her life.

She smiled brightly, finishing her lunch. It was strange to be thinking so much of 47- but she'd been around him fairly recently.

As she left the deli, she didn't even see the man come out of an alley near her. And she never felt the pipe hit. The world simply went black, with no clear reason why.


	9. 8- Kidnap Catastrophe

It was only a month after she'd been captured by the police thanks to Birdie, and she was in a similar situation. Nothing about _this_ situation was in any way alright. She woke from being knocked unconscious to being tied up in a cold dark room with a strange man. It was not Diana's definition of fun. Especially with the glaring light that made the man only a shadow. She knew exactly what this was- an interrogation. And unlike the last one she'd been involved with, this man would not ask nicely.

Somehow, she'd become compromised. It hadn't only been Birdie that knew she was 47's handler. A mistake on her part. She had seen him in person too many times. Even one small slip-up could have caused this catastrophe. As she sat there waiting for the man to ask her anything, her thoughts dwelled on where she may have made that mistake that put not only her, but 47, at risk.

Someone must have seen them together at some point. It wasn't in Chicago- 47's disguise had very nearly had _her_ fooled. Maybe 47 had missed a shred of evidence from Birdie's files. Maybe someone had seen them talk, even for the short moment they shared, at the cafe in Detroit one week prior. No- this was her own fault. 47 was far too thorough to make a mistake. Maybe they spotted her tracking down his location so she could ask him back to the Agency. Maybe 47 wasn't the only one Travis had sent her file to.

Her assassin friend had a lot of enemies. She gave him contracts- he carried them out flawlessly. These people knew her job- and probably his, too. How else would they catch a ghost, but to ask the one who supplied him with work- and the only one who knew his current safehouse locations?

The man finally stepped towards her. In the darkness, he looked almost like 47 himself. Tall, imposing, and completely bald. But he was burlier, with less angular features. And his eyes were a deep, mud brown. "Where is the hitman called 47?" he asked her in a gruff voice.

"47 is his name, not a code-number." She wasn't going to give him 47's location, but she would correct the misinterpretation of 47's number-name.

The man scowled down at her. "47 isn't a name."

"It is for him."

"Where is 47?"

Diana shrugged. "Who knows? The man's a ghost. I only talk to him through Age- AH!"

The powerful man's first strike hit her hard on the right side of her face. "We know you have met with him at least once in person, Ms. Burnwood. We know that he trusts you. Don't lie to me again."

Her eyes squeezed shut, trying hard to get rid of the spinning feeling that his punch had given her. It hadn't knocked her out. Yet. That wasn't his intention. He needed her awake. "What makes you think I'm lying?"

"You met with him to bring him back to the Agency, did you not?"

 _Well, there's my answer. I was caught looking for him._ _I'm dead anyway._ Exposing 47- or even potentially exposing him... they might be friends, of sorts- but 47 wouldn't hesitate to kill her for another betrayal. He wouldn't know she hadn't given them his safehouse. And she couldn't hold out forever. Especially if they used a few methods she knew of. She opted not to answer the man for now, though.

"Tell us where he is, and I promise you a quick death."

"You underestimate him. And me. At your own peril." At that, she was struck again. This time, his ring made a lovely shallow cut on her forehead, just above her eyebrow. The world spun for a second time. She doubted she'd be conscious much longer.

"You're just a little girl who just happens to hand jobs to a dangerous hitman. We don't care about you." He was already seething.

"Too bad for you that he scares me more than you do, then." When she was struck this time, the world went black. The blow had landed on her jaw, busting her lip and knocking her out.

When Diana came to, she was now hooked up to a generator, and two extra men had joined in. She really didn't want to know what they'd done to her while she was out. But being electrocuted wasn't going to be very amusing, either.

"Tell us where to find 47," one of the men said, his voice a lot smoother. His silhouette was skinnier than the other men. Probably the boss.

Instead of saying anything at all, she just glared at them. When the electricity flowed, she screamed and arched involuntarily. Every nerve felt like it was on fire. There would be burns at the contact points. If she survived. It didn't last long- this time.

"This doesn't have to go on, Ms. Burnwood. Tell us where to find 47."

Another figure entered the room, the glint of a chrome pistol shining in the single bright light. Though the man was only a silhouette like the others, Diana instantly knew who it was. She didn't even need the gravelly, unfeeling voice that soon followed his entrance. "Right here."

The men all spun, bullets flying around the small room. Someone hit the edge of the light, causing it to drop on its wiring and swing wildly. As it swung, it lit up different parts of the firefight and room. Holes on the wall- then the floor where a man was crouched. Just as quickly as the light uncovered him- his head exploded, spraying the wall in bright red.

The light continued to swing, and a bullet so nearly missed Diana that she could hear it whiz right by and hit someone behind her. She screamed, trying to pull free off her restraints. This was dangerous. Someone was going to hit her. Another figure was briefly lit by the light- red tie flinging as the assassin quickly dodged back out of the light. Gunshots went off around her, their flashes so brief that almost no one in the room could tell who was where.

Another bullet hit the light- intentional, perhaps. Just the briefest flash of the burly man who'd hit Diana, and another explosion of red from his chest. Only one left.

The last one shot towards where he thought the shots had come from. A mistake, as it gave the light a chance to come into his direction. BAM! Last one down. He was way too close to Diana. She could feel his blood spatter against her right side. It made her scream again.

 _47 is going to kill me now,_ she thought. But then- why hadn't she been the first target? If he was going to kill her, doing so would have been a great deal easier when the light was stable. As it swung about, she could see the assassin come towards her, light glinting off of one of his Silverballers, rest of him mostly in shadow.

The pistol raised, and Diana squeezed her eyes shut tight in anticipation. She heard the two shots, making her flinch heavily. But she wasn't dead. Instead, she found her bonds effectively broken.

Panicked, Diana yanked the leads for the generator out, and got up quickly, trying to run, but quickly stumbling. So she tried to clamor to the door, half running, half falling. It was to no avail. With his free arm, 47 easily scooped Diana off the floor. She flailed wildly- even hit him repeatedly as hard as she could. She wanted to escape. Every instinct said to run. To fight. But 47 was unmoved. It was like being held by a metal bar that had a bit of padding on it.

All of her efforts stopped the instant she felt the cold metal of his pistol against her neck, near the back, where a bullet would sever her spinal cord. Eyes wide, she hung limp in his arms. There was nothing she could do against him.

Calmly- quietly, he spoke into her ear. "Calm down, Diana." He didn't mean to actually shoot her, but he had been certain that the touch of his pistol would snap her out of her panicked state. "I'm not going to kill you, unless you force me to."

She slowly nodded, and he let her down. There were no words left in her throat.

Silently, they made their way back outside. No guards. No anyone. The room had been in an old bomb shelter, but it seemed empty aside from the three men 47 had gunned down just moments ago. It was desolate.

When they emerged, it was night, in the middle of nowhere. Just desert in every direction, and only two vehicles- a Hummer and a now-dirty sleek blue sedan. The sedan was obviously 47's.

Diana decided to take a nap in the car on the way out, rather than try to talk to the man.


	10. 9- Death's Darkened Heart

47 slid off his gloves, put one in each pocket of his jacket, and pulled the white handkerchief from his breast pocket. Gingerly, he wiped the blood from around Diana's facial wounds. Hissing, she flinched- the wounds were still quite tender. "47..." she objected, "you'll never get the stains out."

47's shoulders gave a very light shrug. "I have others." It didn't matter, really. After all, why carry a handkerchief if you weren't going to use it? He might be a killer, but that was no reason to be uncouth. It was somewhat his fault that she was like this, anyway. An enemy knew she was connected to him, and she'd been beaten for his location. She hadn't given them the information, regardless of the pain. There was a reason that she had his trust again.

"Do you care about anything?" She gave him a playful glare as she spoke.

"Possessions can be replaced," he replied simply.

"People can't." A statement, not a question.

"People can't, " 47 repeated.

Diana closed her eyes. 47 was too imposing, standing over her like this. Maybe it was that she knew what he was capable of. Maybe anyone would feel the weight of his gaze and the danger in his hands. His touch was so much more gentle than she thought it could be. Then again- disabling a bomb required a gentle touch also. Not really comforting.

47 easily noticed her muscles tense as she imagined all the ways he could kill her. His eyes softened somewhat- the only part of him that reflected his muted emotions. "If I was going to hurt you, I would have done so before now."

His words startled her a bit, and she glanced up at him with a frown. "I know. But you can't really blame me. I, more than most, know what you're capable of."

He couldn't argue. Once he finished cleaning her off a little, he gave her the handkerchief. If she needed anything else, she could easily do it herself. He gave her wounds a once-over. Nothing too serious.

His bare fingers lightly touched her swelling left cheek. It was already starting to bruise. When she pulled away, he lowered his hand, and stepped over to lean on the nearby wall.

Diana sighed, pressing the handkerchief against her still-bleeding lip. "I wasn't expecting you to touch it." Her words seemed like an apology. "And your hands are smoother than I expected." They were a little rougher than her own- likely toughened for the harsher things he did. But they were the hands she would more easily connect to a rich man who liked to climb than a contract killer.

47's eyes betrayed his mild amusement. Not only was it a little funny, to him, to apologize to an assassin- but the fact she had, at some point, thought about the feeling of his bare hands. "I have to keep them soft and well-groomed. Shaking hands without gloves is a common occurrence."

Diana considered his words, and her mind drifted to his assignments. It was true that most missions they sent him on were high-profile... and that meant he was in high society more often than not. It made sense. "I suppose it's easier to be a working-class man with gloves, and a classy man without. It was just unexpected."

47 was far too practiced to laugh, but his icy blue eyes shone with the laughter his body didn't. "Exactly what did you expect, Diana?" Surely, she should know better. She had been his handler since she started at the Agency- and was the one who had stayed with him the longest. Before Diana, he'd gone through a few- either from his almost-lack of tone, or simply his particular personality- no one seemed to want to work with him for too long, regardless of his popularity. Diana was the exception. Fresh into being accepted into the Handler Program, she had been given his dossier- their most requested hitman. He still didn't know how many other agents she handled.

"Man hands," she admitted.

He just gave her an odd look, the edges of his eyes showing far more of the developing crow's feet than usual as he strained to continue not to laugh. "I'm an assassin, not a barbarian," he joked.

Diana didn't even try not to laugh. It relieved some of the tension she'd felt from his close proximity. He did pop a joke in now and then when they spoke, but this was more like.. well.. friends. "We've never really had a chance to talk like this. Like friends."

"Friends." His voice held the barest edge of something Diana couldn't quite put her finger on. Regret, perhaps? "People connected to me get hurt. Friends are targets." She should already know this, with her current wounds. It was because someone had discovered her being his handler that she was in this position.

"I can handle myself, 47. You saw that for yourself."

He decided not to continue that line of conversation. She could take a beating, certainly- but this was, in no small way, his fault- for being so close to her. For letting her see him in person so often. "The Agency will take you out of the Handler Program," he noted coldly.

Diana gave a deep frown. "I know. I was compromised." But it meant 47 would be handed off to someone else. She would never hear from him again... and after this- the third time he saved her- she was certain that she didn't want that to happen. She wanted to stay as his handler. It didn't matter that it put her in danger. She actively enjoyed his quirks, which seemed to put off most others. "I don't want to leave the Program. Or you. How did you even find me?"

This seemed to get an actual quirk of one of 47's dark eyebrows. It was minute- but it was there. "Becoming attached, are we?" It was something of a joke, but he actually wanted to know. Attachments from handler to agent weren't allowed. The Agency believed it would affect the handler's judgment. Or the agent's. "Through the Agency's intel. They sent a small Hammer team. I got there first."

She cast her glance downward. "Yes..." she admitted. She tried to be honest with him. There was no reason to pretend. But even as she said it, she realized this was wrong. All of it. She shouldn't be in his safehouse- let alone talking to him like this. He shouldn't have come for her except to silence her. Maybe the Agency was right to forbid attachments. "I should go..." She went to stand, but was surprised when 47's hand went to stop her from standing. She hadn't even seen him move away from the wall.

"You might still be in danger. You're safer here." He sounded somewhat concerned- like he had when he'd wounded her.

"Safer with a contract killer I should be assigning contracts to?" she joked mildly. But she knew better than to argue with him. 47 hadn't survived this long by being careless. He knew how to defend himself and those around him- and he'd learned about keeping a close eye on the perimeter of his safehouses from her. Well- more so the SWAT team that had surrounded one of them the day she had to poison him.

" _I'm_ not the one hunting you," he joked back. After he was sure she wasn't going to leave, he slid his pistols free of their holsters, and set one on the bedside table. The other, he took to the small lamp table next to the chair in the corner. After this, he moved gracefully over to the wardrobe, slipping out of his suit jacket. It was put onto a hanger and set inside. After this, he removed the tie, and hung it up on a hook on the left door of the wardrobe, before removing his holsters to also hang them inside before closing the wardrobe.

Diana watched him curiously. It was almost odd to think of him being casual, but she supposed the jacket and tie made sleeping awkward. She set the handkerchief on the bedside table near the pistol, and gently plucked it up. It wasn't the first time she'd held it- but it was the first time she'd been more or less given the permission. She examined it more closely than she had when she'd taken them to put them on his 'corpse.' He kept it extremely well-maintained.

47 untucked his shirt and unbuttoned it, then took his place on the chair, watching her examine the Silverballer. "Didn't get the chance to look them over last time?"

"Not really." She set the pistol down again, and looked over at him. "I would have thought you wouldn't really let anyone touch them- let alone use one."

"They're just pistols, Diana. I had them customized to my liking, but that doesn't mean they're anything other than tools. They're expendable, regardless of my attachment to them."

She just rolled her eyes, shaking her head at him. "Isn't there anything you can't live without, 47?"

"Well- I do still have to eat and sleep," he mused lightly.

Diana glared at him playfully, taking off her bloodied jacket and chucking it at him. "That isn't what I meant."

He caught the jacket flawlessly, and set it down on the floor under the lamp table. But he didn't answer the question. In his opinion- it was obvious. There was nothing he couldn't give up for the right reason. Nothing material, anyway. "Sleep."

"Not without an answer."

"No. Now sleep."

"Not even me?" she joked with a wide grin.

47 pursed his lips a bit. This conversation was wearing a bit thin on him. "I doubt I would miss your absence for long." His tone was completely cold.

She frowned at him a bit. "Then why save me again? It sure as Hell wasn't part of your assignment this time." Her voice was angry- a surprise to her. Was she seriously taking a jab at her rescue with a man who could have easily ended her life? Surely, she was going insane.

His eyes narrowed at her for a moment. When she shied away from that dangerous gaze, he softened again, and closed his eyes. "I honestly don't know. Perhaps.. I am the one who's attached."

Diana couldn't help but gawk. Did she hear that right? "That doesn't sound like you." Indeed. It was highly uncharacteristic. He may have had a friend once- but he'd left Vittorio behind to protect him. Sure- he showed that he had concern with others than himself- but to become attached? No- not 47.

"I know," he admitted. Maybe he was just getting old. It was foolish to become attached. But he didn't have another explanation. He had formed a much tighter bond with Diana _after_ they had made amends. Part of it had been the promise to protect Victoria, who was safely off at Harvard. Part of it was something he couldn't possibly explain- but it was something connected to the sliver of humanity that still existed within him. A desire to belong- to be accepted. It had been the same feeling that had taken him to Vittorio- to seek some semblance of redemption. And strangely enough- he had found that in her.

Diana wasn't as fragile or trusting as Vittorio. She was smart- skilled- able to fend for herself when not taken by surprise. She gave him an acceptance he hadn't even seen from Vittorio- knew exactly who he was- _what_ he was... and still accepted and trusted him without question. Indeed- she was still hesitant at times... but when she relaxed, it was like her mild mistrust of what he could do simply disappeared. Her eyes held no fear now, and were filled with something towards him that he had never seen directed at him- the look a person gave the one they trust the most- the glance one gave a best friend. It was strange, but it was welcome. It made him feel... human.

She gave a light chuckle, and shook her head. "I guess we're both done for, then." She meant it as a joke.

"That is not unlikely."

"Your humor still needs work," she teased, smirking at him. "Lighten up a little." If she wasn't going to be working with him professionally from here on out, she may as well take the time they had left together to be actual friends. After all- why be all professional when she was probably getting fired?

47 didn't even open his eyes, he simply set his hands in his lap and prepared to sleep in the chair for the night. "Don't act like we'll ever meet again, Diana. Our partnership ends in the morning."

"I'm still your friend." She frowned deeply at the man, hating that he was right. She wouldn't even see him again- friend or not.

He gave a light sigh. It wasn't that he wanted to stop working with her. He didn't have a choice in the matter. With anyone else, he would have felt indifferent- but he felt much the same as he had when he'd left Vittorio. Half knew it was necessary, and the other half regretted the parting. She would be safer away from him. Able to care for herself or not- he couldn't very well take her with him. He could, possibly, keep in contact... no- that wouldn't be wise. "I know."

Diana sighed quite a bit more lengthily, went to turn off the lights, and slid into the bed to curl up under the covers. In the morning, 47 would return her to the Agency for the reprimand. At the very least, she would cease to be a handler- if they didn't let her go all together. She somewhat faced him, cuddled into the warm blankets. "47..?" He only made a questioning 'mm' noise at her, so she continued. "I'll miss you."

His eyes opened, and he looked at her in what could only be described as mild bewilderment. Miss him? Who could possibly miss him? Was she joking again? Sometimes- he honestly couldn't tell. But her words had him puzzled and shocked- things he hadn't felt since he killed Ort-Meyer and went to find his humanity. He wasn't even sure what to say-or if he should say anything at all.

Diana smiled at him genuinely. "You're one of the few agents with a moral compass at all, you know. You act indifferent to everything... but I don't believe you are. You protected Vittorio and Victoria- even though you didn't have to. You could have just let them both die or be taken away and never seen again- but you didn't." She lifted up in the bed a bit so she could see him better. In the dark, all she could really see was his ice-blue eyes, which caught what small amount of light that leaked in from the windows. The rest of him was basically a shadow.

"I believe you're a good man," she continued. "Maybe a little broken- but that comes with the territory, I think."

47 shook his head. "You're wrong."

"No. You're wrong for thinking you can't have at least one real friend in life." She sighed, curling up again. She saw through his attempt to push her away. "I don't care what you are, 47. You've gone out of your way for me- saved my life- saved Victoria from your fate. Somewhere in there, you have a heart. I will never forget what you've done for me. And I'll never consider you anything but my closest friend. No matter how many 'evil eyes' you throw at me."

Her words stung. She had to make this harder for him than it already was. "Get some sleep."


	11. 10- A Bitter Farewell

This is the half-way point, and it's a somewhat decent ending. So if you want to stop before the much more depressing ending, it's probably best to stop here. I will upload the other 10 chapters at some point later this week or early next week. Feedback is appreciated.

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47 had already been awake for some time when Diana roused from her slumber. She sat up just in time to see him slipping back on his shirt and buttoning it up.

He didn't even turn to see her. "You should straighten up before you leave."

Diana gave him an agitated groan. "No coffee- no 'good morning.' You're a terrible host." She slunk out of the bed, moving past him towards the restroom.

47 was back to his normal, indifferent, self. He said nothing, letting her get a shower.

Diana basked in the seemingly endless flow of hot water until she got a bit too pruney. Only one towel. It still had a bit of dampness to it. He must have also showered. No brush. She figured a bald man had no need for one. It wasn't like he had overnight company. Well- until last night. She used her hands in her hair and settled it the best she could.

Her favorite assassin was in his trademark suit by the time she got out. She could almost see the pistols at his sides. Maybe it was just that she knew they were there. The suit itself held no clue unless you knew the cut was specifically done to hide a double shoulder holster. "Well- there's the 47 we all know and love." Her words sounded a bit more spiteful than she meant. She didn't want to leave on bad terms with him- not after last night. "Sorry. That came out a bit mean."

The man gave her nothing. Nothing at all. He simply stepped over to the door, and held it open for her. She sighed, and grabbed her jacket (which was laid out on the bed now). As she went to the door, she paused and looked up at him. It was like that very small soft side she'd seen last night had been completely wiped away. His expression was as blank as it always was. She couldn't help but frown as those icy blues stared down at her with such indifference. He didn't even seem impatient that she was just standing here in the portal. After a moment, she hugged him. It was the only time she'd have the chance. He could bloody well shoot her is he didn't like it.

Diana let his warmth flow over her for a moment. The man was hard as a rock- and warm like the beach. It wasn't entirely unpleasant. When she released him, she finally stepped outside the door.

47 didn't mind the hug. He had spent the better part of the morning re-establishing his personal shield. Did it hurt to see her go? Hell yes. She was his best friend- his handler for so long- and he would never see her again. But he wouldn't show the pain. Not to her- and certainly not to the agent picking her up. His eyes softened only for the briefest moment, before they became like piercing steel once more. Someday, he'd get over the loss- just as he had Father Vittorio. He closed and locked the door,and waited for her to start moving.

The proper English woman regained her composure, and shrugged on her jacket. She took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. Then, they were heading down the hall. Down the elevator. Out to the waiting black car. She had to be like him now- professional, regardless of her feelings. A while ago, 47 had practically forced the Agency to have her stay as his handler- but there was nothing he could do for her now. Being compromised meant immediate termination. 47 knew this as much as she did. This was to be their last goodbye, and they couldn't even act like friends as they did so.

The agent exited the black car and opened the door for her. "Ms. Burnwood. Mr. 47." He greeted each in turn politely. He motioned Diana into the car. Once inside, he closed the door and returned to his own.

Diana looked out the darkened window with a frown."Goodbye, 47.." she said softly- not even audible to her driver, and fought back the desire to cry.

The car went out of sight before 47 headed back inside- and he was safely inside his abode before he spoke to himself, leaning heavily on the door. "Goodbye, Diana."


	12. 11- Handlers for a Hitman

Here's the other half of the story. Feedback is appreciated.

* * *

47 very nearly sneered at the voice briefing him through the earpiece. His new handler was male- his tone stating the information coldly, like reading statistics. Diana had always been pleasant- even friendly. But it was just a job- and the hitman could easily deal with it. Question was- could this new handler deal with _him_? His own indifference seemed to be a terrible turn-off. But even he knew how to joke a little, with those he knew well.

"This map is incomplete," 47 pointed out in a level tone.

"I guess you'll just have to do some footwork, then, 47." The handler's tone was almost spiteful. "We got what we could."

He had no idea why, but the way this handler said his name irritated him- but he wasn't the sort to let a bit of irritation get between him and a target. Though, he was decidedly not fond of this man named Trevor. He disconnected the link, and got up to get ready. It was just another mission- terrible handler or not.

In the conclusion of his mission, which he executed with his usual level of perfection, his mild irritation at his new handler grew into active dislike. Trevor was quite rude, if you asked him- only sending him a message that the funds had transferred. No 'job well done,' no personal touch at all. It was like the man was actively avoiding having to talk to him.

It wasn't like the Agency to hand their best asset over to a handler with less social skills than _him_. Or maybe 47 was the only asset getting this treatment. No real way of knowing.

Still- like or dislike, he would do his job well.

With the next few contracts, 47 chose to speak as little as possible. Trevor never asked if he was interested in a job- never gave him anything but straightforward information- never even gave him an update on the missions verbally, if at all. Information was always lacking in some way, as if to test 47's prowess, if not his patience. The Agency was never so sloppy. Perhaps something had been lost besides Diana.

A chirp from his laptop roused him from his rest. As he went over to it, he examined the small bit of information in the file. There was barely anything there at all. Just a name and a possible location. Nothing else. And his handler wasn't even briefing him. This, he thought, was very strange. Unfinished files were _never_ handed to him.

He decided to call into the Agency himself at this point. Something felt wrong.

"This is Agency, Jeanne speaking." said the soft-spoken French girl on the other end.

"This is 47. Patch me through to one of the Handler Program's Management, please."

The girl seemed to be quite surprised. "Forty... seven? I.. what? You exist?"

47 gave a light sigh. "You must be new. Patch me through to Management."

Jeanne swallowed hard enough to hear it through the speaker. "Er- yeah. Can I confirm your ID, Mr. 47?"

"My number is BRO3886."

"Yes. That checks out. _Ne quittez pas_." The girl was so flabbergasted that she'd slipped into French at the end.

After several minutes passed, he was greeted by one of the Managers for the Program. "This is Armand. What appears to be the problem, 47?"

"My handler passed me an incomplete file with no briefing. This isn't standard protocol." Even though he was agitated, his voice was as calm as ever. He knew well how not to allow such things to affect him.

Armand gave a small 'huh' noise. "Let me check on your current assignment. Please hold."

Again- several minutes passed before Armand returned to the line. "Indeed- it seems you were requested for this contract, but the client gave us very little intel. We wouldn't normally pass this to an agent without recon. How strange." he paused to look something up on his computer. "It looks like your current handler is Trevor Belford. This isn't the first time he's passed files without authorization." The man sounded grouchy now. "Sorry about all this, 47. I honestly can't believe Belford would do this to our best agent. Let me transfer you to a new handler. Maybe a greenhorn like Diana was when she started with you."

"See that this doesn't happen again, Armand. If I didn't have the rapport I do with the Agency, things like this might make me wonder about your professionalism."

"Er.. yes. I understand, 47. It won't happen again." It was only at the end when he realized the line had been disconnected from the agent's end. Heads would roll for this stupidity, that was for sure. 47 was the most requested agent on their payroll- as well as the most expensive. It meant that their contract fee was much higher with 47 than normal. He made them lots of money. This was unacceptable.

Indeed, it would be another handler that contacted the assassin several hours later, while he was taking a run.

"Hello, 47. This is Ginger from Agency. We have a completed contract file for you now, if you're still interested." Her voice was sweet, with an Irish tinge to her British accent.

47 gave a low 'mmhmm.' "Always interested." _D_ é _j_ à _vu_. He recalled saying those exact words to Diana. This one was even a greenhorn, as she had been when they started working together. He had been Diana's first agent. Unusual, but not impossible. Even some in the Agency weren't aware of him. But this girl seemed friendly, at least.

When the briefing for the contract was over- 47's eyes examining the intel on his laptop as she spoke- Jeanne spoke up again. Most would just disconnect. "And 47? It's an honor to be working with you. It's not every day you get to talk to a legend."

Legend. Ghost. He was used to these descriptions by now. This girl reminded him of Diana, even as he disconnected the line so he could prepare. He wasn't sure why his mind continued to drift to his former handler. Perhaps he had just become so used to her that it almost seemed odd to him that she was gone now.

Perhaps, he thought idly, he missed her. Quickly, the thought was snuffed out. He had to concentrate on the job. The less time he had to think about how he felt, the better.


	13. 12- Reunited

Diana honestly couldn't believe who she was watching socialize at the high-class party as though he belonged there (he didn't, and she knew it. But 47 didn't stand out to anyone but her). He smiled along with one of the guest's jokes, his fingers gingerly cradling a glass of champagne. She could see why no one noticed him. He fit in flawlessly. In fact- if she didn't know him on-sight, she would have missed him, too.

She moved in his direction, her blue dress shimmering along rhinestone lines and glittered designs as she moved. When he saw her, he looked, for just a moment, as though he had seen a ghost. The man 47 had been chatting to turned to see who had caught the eye of his new 'friend.'

Carl Vaas. The man was slightly shorter than 47, with sleek, thin features, and wavy auburn hair. His suit was dark blue, with a lighter tinted undershirt and purple tie. When he spoke, his voice was like liquid honey- quite the contrast to the gravelly deeper tone of her assassin friend. "Well hello, Ms. Burnwood! I thought you were here with Sir Sunderland! Have you met Mr. Reese?"

"I was. He wandered off with a blonde harlot- as usual." She smiled sweetly at Carl, then at 47. "Indeed. We're old friends, actually." It was the truth.

Sunderland? That was 47's target. Already off with his.. company. He would have to complete his contract soon. He offered Diana a friendly smile. She would know it was forced. "It's good to see you again, Diana." His words were honest. He hadn't expected to run into her- especially on a job.

"Are you in town long?"

"Only until tomorrow," he admitted.

"Well- perhaps we can catch dinner, then?" Diana smiled up at him. She had surely missed him. He would be fifty-one later this year- a full decade and some change older than herself, but he didn't look any older than the last time she'd seen him.

He gauged her request for a lingering moment. "I suppose it won't kill me," he joked. From his inner pocket- which allowed Diana to see he wasn't wearing his pistols- he plucked out a business card. One of very few that would actually have his current contact number on it. Gingerly, he handed it to her. "Call me at seven-thirty, and I'll pick you up."

Carl grinned, and gave 47 a nudge. "Henry- I didn't know you were such a ladies man." He wiggled his brows teasingly.

47 gave a light chuckle at the man."You hardly know me." He looked to his watch, and handed Diana his untouched champagne. "I'm afraid I must go. There is business I must attend to."

Diana knew him. She stuck his card in her small purse, and gave a smile, then took the drink. "It's always business, Henry," she teased with a grin. He simply left, and she returned to speaking with Carl.

When 47 had been gone a few hours, and she still hadn't heard from Mr. Sunderland, she went to look for him. Perhaps he was occupied by some blond- but it was already five past six, and she had more-or-less a date tonight. With an assassin. She mused over that for a moment, but she wondered why 47 had agreed to meet with her. The thought immediately ceased when she found James Sunderland- the man she'd been working for since the Agency let her go.

Her hand quickly went up to her nose at the smell. Even the recently deceased were an unpleasant find. The skinny balding old pervert had an unmistakable bruise line across his throat- dark brown eyes still open and blood-shot from strangulation. It wasn't the first time she'd seen 47's handiwork- but it was the first time she'd seen it in person. And it was most certainly a first for her to be even slightly close to a victim.

She hadn't cared for the man- but she'd _known_ him- and his family. His son would be devastated. And her hitman friend was to blame. No... it wasn't 47's fault. He was a tool- an asset. Someone had specifically hired him to do this, through the Agency. He wouldn't even know who the client was. This wasn't personal for him... it was just another job. Another kill to add to his perfect record.

Quietly, she went out of the room, a little more pale than before. Someone else could deal with the body. _She_ felt the need for a shower and a wardrobe change.

Her boss was dead. She was suddenly unemployed. And she was calling the very man who'd ended both her career and her boss' life. Maybe she was insane. She waited for an answer on the cell, having cleaned up and dressed down into a sleek black business suit.

"Diana." His tone was as level and calm as ever. Perhaps he hadn't even known that his target had been her employer.

"Hello, 47." It was actually more habit to speak to him on the phone like a handler. "I mean.. Henry. That is your name now, isn't it?"

"No more than any of the ones you gave me." He paused a moment, in case she wanted to say something. When she didn't, he continued. "I'm on my way."

"I'm not even going to ask how you know where I'm living. ETA?"

"Ten minutes."

"See you soon..." Her voice trailed off as she soon realized he'd already disconnected. One last quick check in the mirror, then she went to wait downstairs.

She wasn't even surprised when he drove up in a sleek black Audi A4. It was high-end enough to be classy, but unassuming enough to go unnoticed. Her heels clicked gently as she exited the outer door of the building. Thoughts raced in her head as she approached the vehicle, where a contract killer was patiently awaiting her. What was she thinking? She knew 47 never made social calls. There was no reason for him to do this.

Unless she was another target... and he was luring her out, knowing she couldn't resist a meeting. She'd truly missed him. That- perhaps- frightened her the most. She got in, and buckled up. No sooner had she done so than they were on the way to wherever 47 meant to take her. Probably somewhere private. Somewhere it would take several hours to find her body. Maybe it was for the best. They had been as close to friends as 47 ever had. He would make it quick.

He seemed to notice her silent stare out the window without ever taking his eyes off the road. "This was your idea," he pointed out.

She sighed, and glanced over at him. "I didn't imagine you would actually agree. It's not like you." She gave his side a light poke. "You're always the one saying how dangerous it is to meet in person- let alone have dinner."

47 couldn't argue, really. "I'm headed to Paris in the morning. No one knows who killed Sunderland but you- and I know you won't talk. No one even knows I'm here aside from the Agency- and even they don't know where I'm currently staying."

She quirked a brow at him. "Did you stop using Agency safehouses?"

"..Yes."

"Why?" She was curious. And why not? 47 had always used the safehouses they set up. Now he was off the grid, even to them? It didn't make sense.

He pulled in at a small but expensive-looking restaurant that seemed completely deserted, and turned off the car, glancing over at her. "No one there I trust," he noted dryly, then exited the vehicle and went to open her door. Even an assassin could be a gentleman.

She smiled at him a little, and got out, settling her skirt. "I see." Maybe he would poison her food- but she could enjoy his company until he killed her. Death didn't really frighten her anymore. She felt almost empty after leaving the Agency. Even Victoria didn't write much anymore. And she liked 47, even if he was here to end her. In fact- she couldn't really imagine a better way to go out. She took his arm, and followed him inside.

47 must have reserved the whole place. Not surprising. He chose a table nearest the corner, and pulled a seat out for her before taking one for himself that put his back to the corner.

The maitre d gave them menus. "Will you have something to drink?"

"Yes- a 2005 Bodegas Roda Cirsion, please."

"Excellent choice, sir. I'll give you some time to look over our menu." That said, the maire d elegantly walked away to fetch the wine.

Diana gawked at 47, mildly surprised. "That's a two-hundred dollar bottle of wine."

"Two-hundred-fifty," he corrected. He removed his gloves and set them to one side on the table, as was proper, then began looking over the menu.

She knew how much he made per target- or approximately, at least. Rates change. But he was a highly-sought hitman. He could easily afford it. The question was- why would he? "You have expensive tastes.. Henry." It was hard not to use the name she knew- or, rather.. the number. "But why are you doing this?"

"We're friends, are we not?"

"I suppose so."

"Then stop trying to make this out to be anything other than a friend treating a friend to a nice dinner."

She resigned to his words, and looked over the menu. No prices. That meant everything was at least fifty dollars- even the horderves. A last supper, perhaps. He was, at least, a very polite assassin. It made her smile.

Their supper was spent mostly in silence, as when Diana tried to make conversation, 47 simply gave her the smallest of responses. Business- and talking, it seemed- were for after the food and wine. So she ate in silence.

Once the plates were collected, and they were left alone by the staff to chat, 47 leaned back in the chair, waiting for her to start the conversation again, softened eyes not remotely looking like he meant to kill her.

"You killed my boss, you know." Her words were tinged with mild annoyance.

He made a light 'mm' noise. "No. His staff was not mentioned."

No apology, but Diana didn't figure him to be the type to say sorry anyway. "So I'm not a target."

47's eyes shone with laughter, but his expression was unchanged. "What made you think you were?"

"You don't do anything you don't think is necessary, Henry. And you certainly aren't the type to wine and dine. What reason could you, of all people, have for a date?" She was almost laughing at the situation as well. Though, she was almost sad, too. He was treating her to dinner, and not killing her. After this, she would be alone again. A lovely evening- but it was bittersweet.

"As crazy as this might sound, Diana, I actually missed you." It hadn't been obstructing his work, of course- but when not on assignment, he often felt her absence like it was an open wound. And he couldn't shake it. That was why he was working so much recently- no time to dwell on it. Kept him focused on something else.

Diana was flabbergasted, her mouth slightly agape in shock. "You? No, not you. You don't miss people. That isn't you." Was it? 47's job and his life were one-in-the-same, right? He didn't have room to miss his friends.

"Don't act so surprised. I can miss people. I simply don't let it interfere with my work." He sounded mildly insulted, but soon let it go. "I was made to be the perfect killer, but I'm still human- more or less."

"It's hard to remember that sometimes," she admitted with a frown. "You act so indifferent." She heaved a sigh, and leaned back, observing the man across from her. His face gave her nothing at all. But the eyes- those eerie ice-blue eyes- they were softer than she'd seen them since the day he shot her. Those typically intimidating eyes gave her a window into his emotions that she'd never fully noticed before. She decided they were definitely his best feature, as intense as they seemed under those wedge-like dark brows. "I missed you too. Life just isn't the same without giving you contract information." She laughed softly at her own words.

"Contracts aren't the same without your briefings." He realized his words came as a shock. He seemed to be getting that reaction from her a lot this evening. After the silence stained the air with discomfort for a lingering strand of moments, he gave a light sigh. Part of him couldn't even believe he was saying this. "Diana.. come with me to Paris."

She very nearly fainted- and it wasn't the wine. "You're not serious," she gawped in disbelief. "Forty-sev-er-Henry.. you already said you couldn't take me with you. Remember?"

47 gave a slight nod. "I remember." He wasn't quite sure how to put it, really. So he went with blunt. "Men like me rarely live as long as I have."

"So what? You've decided to have me around to watch you die?" Her words sounded meaner than she meant them to, but she didn't care.

"I've decided that if I'm dead in a few years anyway- I may as well not be alone." His shoulders rose in a very small shrug. "But I suppose it is possible that your words are not untrue." His right hand smoothed itself over his head to rub at his scarred tattoo. "Perhaps I'm just getting old."

"You don't look a day over forty," she joked lightly. "I don't know. It isn't exactly safe to be around you."

"I age slower than normal." Indeed- he had been what Ort-Meyer referred to as 'the perfect human specimen.' He was stronger, faster, smarter, and more durable than the average man. But he would still die like anyone else. "No. But I could teach you how to defend yourself. How to shoot and hit your target more often than not. How to feel a room, and anticipate people. And the Agency would not deny me an attendant. As far as they need to know- you would run errands for me."

Diana fidgeted a little. "The legendary Agent 47 doesn't need an attendant," she prodded at him verbally, giving up on calling him Henry. "You couldn't be afraid to die alone. You don't feel fear. Not even for death. So why would you need me?"

"It isn't a need." No. It was a desire. He wanted to be around her- danger or no danger. She made him feel human. Normal, even- or as normal as a man like him could feel. Death would come for him in the shape of a bullet, most likely, and he wanted to feel that sliver which remained of his humanity as he lie in a pool of his own blood. He didn't fear death- but he didn't want to die a cold-blooded assassin who barely understood friendship, and knew nothing of companionship. But he didn't know how to tell her all that- the words simply escaped him. He'd had a taste of normality with Father Vittorio- but he had been fragile and naive. Diana was intelligent enough to know when to escape a situation, and she was not a stranger to violence like the priest.

She stood up from the table, and closed the distance between them. "You're serious." This time, it wasn't a question. "A friend for the end, then."

"A friend for the end," he repeated softly.

She rested her hand on his muscular left shoulder. "I don't want to watch you die. But I know what it's like to feel alone. No one should feel alone when they pass beyond."

47 stood from the table, letting her hand slide down his arm. "You don't have to. It's only a request- one friend to another."

Diana gave his arm a light squeeze before letting him go, and smiled at him sadly. "What sort of friend would I be if I didn't accept? Who knows- maybe we both won't have to die alone."

"Perhaps." He gave her his arm, and when she took it, he lead her back out, holding each door for her politely. They had a plane to catch.


	14. 13- Frustrations

It was now a little over half a year after she'd become 47's assistant, and Diana was having a rough day in London.

She had finally made it to the dry cleaners to pick up one of his suits. It had been drenched in blood, destroying the shirt- but the jacket and slacks had been salvageable. Thanks to an incident on the roads (no doubt some idiot drivers), she was an hour behind schedule. A bloody _hour_. It had made her rather irate, as she had other things to get done. She still had to go by a drop-off point for some supplies, fetch her friend a new blood red tie, pick up his custom shoes, and return home before he did.

The latter seemed impossible at this point. No doubt 47 was already done with his mission, and on his way back to their flat on the outskirts. As another man cut in front of her at the cleaner, she seethed inwardly, wishing she could use her training from the assassin to beat the Hell out of someone. Maybe he'd take her out for some hand-to-hand practice- get her frustration out- since she wasn't allowed to use his training unless absolutely necessary. That was the deal.

"Sir... I was here first." She tried to be polite, but the barest edge of her annoyance was evident in her tone. She was certainly not as practiced as 47 with keeping emotion out of her speech. Or her expression, for that matter. For a moment, she wondered what his secret was. How the Hell did he stay so calm around assholes like _this_ guy?

"Well, good for you. I'm a very important man with important work. I don't have time to dawdle," he snapped.

 _And I do?_ She glared daggers at the ill-mannered fellow in front of her, but let him fetch his blue suit.

Once she had the familiar black suit jacket with red lining and perfectly creased slacks, she made her way back to the car. While sometimes she wondered how 47 ever got around while she drove his car, she wasn't really sure she wanted to know. He had his ways- and not all of them were pleasant. In fact- she bet most of them were quite the opposite.

When she'd been his handler, she'd known what he did- even a lot of how. But she had observed from a distance, receiving only the proof that the job had been completed. She still wasn't used to being so close to the action- or to him. 47 wasn't a great conversationalist, but he did try with her. He also had a consistently indifferent, stoic expression. It made him hard to talk to at any length- or really be near for too long.

She could deal, though. He did his best to accommodate for her in his life- the least she could do was accommodate him. And perhaps her studies with basic medicine would come in handy with his wounds. He wouldn't have to give up a safehouse to see one of the Agency doctors as often. Someday, she would be able to eliminate his need for them all-together. The sight of his blood wasn't common- but it happened enough for her to get used to it. The fact he didn't seem to feel pain quite as deeply as a normal person helped with that. And the fact he got wounded like any other man made him seem more vulnerable- even human.

Her thoughts were so in the clouds, she very nearly missed her turn. With a soft curse, she went about the rest of her errands.

Diana was right about 47 getting back to the loft before she had. She could hear the shower running. Giving a fleeting thought to what the man looked like naked (more curiosity than anything), she began putting away the supplies and the parts of his suit that had been cleaned or replaced. It made her frown at the closet. On one end were her outfits- with varied designs and colors. On the other were his. Almost every single outfit was an exact (or at least close) clone to the one she'd first seen him in. There were a few that weren't, like the BDUs, the winter gear, and some work-out clothes- but she'd never seen him wear them. He always exercised in the early morning, before she even woke up.

Maybe just one morning she'd wake early to catch a glimpse of the assassin in something other than his trademark suit. Even as she thought it, 47 stepped out of the bathroom wearing a pair of his slacks and an untucked, open white shirt missing its cufflinks. She'd only seen him shirtless once- and it hadn't been for long. So she was still just a tad curious.

Her eyes focused for a moment on the swath of bare flesh she _could_ see. Pale, like the rest of him, and extremely muscular. That sort of explained why he felt like a rock. He must keep himself fit. It made sense- the body was as much a tool as the rest of his arsenal.

Finally, she noticed that she had been staring, and that the assassin's pale blue eyes were locked onto her in return. Her heart skipped a beat, and she tried to casually go back to what she was doing. "Hello, 47." Her voice didn't crack or shiver- good.

"See something you like?" he mused jokingly before buttoning all but the top three buttons on his shirt. For now, he left it untucked.

Diana swallowed hard, completely embarrassed. He _was_ pretty attractive for a killer. But she was certain that was hormones and unsatisfied libido talking. They were just friends- and they would never be more, no matter how attractive she thought he might be.

47's eyes glinted in amusement at her discomfort, and he went to help her sort out and put away the supplies.

"How long are we staying here?" Diana's voice was so soft, she wasn't even sure he could hear her, momentarily forgetting about his heightened senses.

"Until there's a new contract. The news will call this hit an accident. No reason to move again unless the next job takes us elsewhere." He went to fetch one of his Silverballers from its case, and set it by the chair he would sit in.

47 always got them only one bed when they stayed in apartments or the like. People would assume they were a couple that way. But it also meant he either slept on a sofa or in a chair. He had chosen the chair over the sofa this time, and she wasn't sure why- that sofa was comfy as Hell.

"I could use some hand-to-hand," she finally told him. She could still feel her anger at the long and arduous day.

He locked his eyes onto her for several moments, then went to move the sofa to one side of the room. It seemed almost effortless. Then he stood where the sofa had been, his stance neutral, hands at his sides. He didn't have to speak to let her know that he accepted her request.

Diana took off her jacket and heels, loosening her own shirt before approaching him, bringing her fists up. He'd told her to always protect her face. Keep her hands up. But he almost never did. Never had to. Not with her. He easily outmatched her skill, let alone her strength and speed. She wasn't even a challenge. But the point wasn't to challenge him.

She closed in, and slammed her fists at him in a flurry of jabs and punches. Each time her hand came for him, it was quickly swatted away, like a mildly annoying insect- or simply blocked. He didn't even use both hands. Only his right- his speed and skill expertly deflecting or blocking her blows. After a bit of this, she got angry with _him_. Why did he have to make it look so easy all the time?

Her rage boiled over, and she intensified her attacks against him, adding in kicks and knee-thrusts. This, at least, got him to move a bit more. He switched to using both hands to deflect or block her now. It only made her rage intensify. She couldn't land a hit on him! There was no reason she should be able to, but in her rage, she believed there was.

In one last ditch effort, she grabbed his arm as he was swatting away one of her punches, and she pulled at him as hard as she could, thrusting all her weight into her free fist in an attempt to catch him off-balance, or at least off-guard. It didn't work.

She only served to pull herself close to him faster, as he may as well have been attached to the floor. Her fist drove straight into his other hand as it moved between them. In an instant, he expertly spun her off-balance using the very momentum she'd come at him with to twist her past him, using her hand to manipulate her arm. The hand she'd had hold of himwith was easily twisted free in the same motion, and shoved against her shoulder.

Diana let out a yelp as her shoulder threatened to dislocate in his grasp. "Ah! 47- you're hurting me!" She knew he could have easily dislocated her shoulder, and effectively broken any or every bone he wanted. Instead, he had expertly put her into a submission hold.

"You let your anger get the better of you. This is a lesson. Control your emotions in a fight, or lose focus. Lost focus means mistakes. Mistakes mean injury or death." His voice was as calm and even as always. He wasn't even breathing hard.

She found this all incredibly annoying, but forced herself to calm down. "Let go, please." When he did, she rubbed her shoulder. After she turned to face him, she gave him a scowl. "How do you do that?"

"Which?"

"Stay so damn calm, regardless of what's going on around you?" Her words still sounded irate- but they weren't quite so angry.

47's eyes were locked onto her in the same way she imagined they locked onto a target, before they softened slightly with a slow breath. "Rigorous training." It didn't hurt that his job was so dangerous- vigilance and focus were necessities.

She sighed deeply. "They really did a number on you, didn't they?" After speaking, she moved over to try and drag the sofa back into place- unsuccessfully.

The hitman made it look easy for the second time as he joined her efforts. "...Yes," he admitted. They had, after all, trained him since childhood. They had also tormented him. It was exactly why he was the way he was. It was why he had not wanted that for Victoria.

Diana frowned deeply at him. She sat on the sofa, and leaned back. "I've had along day. Will you at least sit with me for a bit?"

"What for?"

"Because that's what friends do, 47. They comfort eachother. They socialize." She had to smile a bit now. While his past was certainly dark, his unmistakable lack of understanding for human interaction when he was being himself was rather amusing. He could fake it pretty well on the job- but only from studying people.

After a moment to contemplate this, he moved to fetch his pistol first so he could set it on the arm of the couch. Then he sat beside her. It has been his idea to take her with him, so he may as well treat her as normal people treat friends- at least as much as possible.

Diana was somewhat surprised that he complied. At least he was trying. She had to give him that much. After sitting there in silence for a long moment, she very slowly leaned up against him, just to see his reaction. And well- he was warm. Not exactly the most comforting presence, but he was all she had right now. And maybe his calm demeanor would somehow calm her down more.

47 tensed up against her pressure, unaccustomed to this sort of interaction when the one against him wasn't there for appearances. He could tolerate it for the job- but it was.. awkward for him.. within the walls of his 'home.' He relaxed a bit soon enough- as much as he ever did. "I'm not the best pillow,' he objected.

"You're not the best conversationalist, either," she teased, poking at his bare chest. No hair. Not even the very fine, almost invisible sort. It seemed the assassin had told her the truth when he'd told her he didn't grow hair anywhere but his eyebrows. His skin was smooth and soft, though- and her finger lingered for a moment, easily finding the ridge of a scar. "Knife?"

He couldn't argue. When he was socializing for a job, he had a cover to maintain. But he preferred to be a private man in his off-time. Diana was trying to pry him out of that. "Shiv." Which was basically a knife, only makeshift.

"Just how many scars do you have?" she pried lightly.

"Too many." All of them had been mistakes, even if minor ones. A few hadn't even been so minor, like the gunshot wound near his belly. That one had very nearly killed him. If the Agency hadn't sent a doctor to pull the bullet out and patch him up- it would have.

"Will you ever show me?" It was a joke.

One eyebrow lifted ever-so-slightly, eyes filled with a dumbstruck sort of glaze. He had no idea why his friend would want to see his scars. "What ever for?"

"Curiosity." She laughed a bit at him. "Humans are pretty curious creatures, you know." With another soft chuckle, she pulled away a bit to look at him. "Oh, who am I kidding? Look who I'm talking to. Of course you know. I'm sure you've used human curiosity to your advantage."

She wasn't wrong. Still. "I fail to understand how my wounds could peak your curiosity."

Diana gave a huff at him as she leaned back into the couch beside him. "Well. I know you better than anyone, 47. But I still have no idea what you look like in a bathing suit. Not even shirtless." She paused a moment. "Scars can tell a story." She lifted her shirt a bit to let him see a small scar on her side. "I was mugged at knife-point once. Thankfully, I wasn't alone. But he still gave me a reminder not to walk down dark alleys." That said, she pulled the cloth back down.

47's cool gaze studied the scar as she showed it to him. It hadn't been deep, and it was faint- old. She had probably gotten it in college, before she had joined the Agency. So she wanted to see his history, carved at least somewhat-permanently into his flesh. The history of his mistakes, and of him overcoming them. He wasn't really shy about baring his flesh when the need arose- sometimes having donned nothing but a sleek bathing suit to fit in. But this was different. More personal. It wasn't part of the job.

He thought it over, letting the silence slowly become more and more uncomfortable. Out of his periphery, he noticed that Diana seemed more and more embarrassed as time seemed to draw out. Finally, he gave a light shrug, and pulled his dress shirt off, standing so he could hang it in the closet. Once finished with this, he returned to sit beside her.

Half of her was shocked that he decided to do it- the other half figured he wasn't the type to be body shy. When he went to put away his shirt, she could clearly see several wounds on his otherwise smooth, chiseled back. She supposed he wasn't the only one who liked to attack from behind. As she turned, she saw just how well-built he was. Each muscle seemed as though it had been carved out of stone- powerful, but not overdone. He must be quite limber also, so being any bulkier would be detrimental. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the crater-like scar where he'd been shot. She remembered that one- as she'd sent the doctor to tend him. But there were many more. There was almost no part of him that she could see that was devoid of any scars.

His piercing gaze drew her out of her gawking, and she blushed a bit. "You must do a lot of work to keep yourself in such good shape."

"I do what I must," he noted dryly. He took his eyes off her to stare at the wall where the unused plasma TV was.

 _Practical_ , she thought to herself. _It suits him._ After another lengthy span of silence, she slumped deeper into the couch. "You know- this whole dragging me around so you could have a friend close thing was _your_ idea."

"Indeed." He looked over at her, with slight amusement twinkling in those icy blues. "This arrangement is not unpleasant." In fact, he rather enjoyed her company. the way she spoke with him- the way she looked at him. Friendship in its truest form. She actually cared for him- accepted him- perhaps even loved him. Storge love, that is. He honestly doubted she saw him in an eros love sort of way. He was her best friend- her room mate and companion, as she was to him.

Diana considered his words for a moment. While she honestly got frustrated with his lack of social skills outside work, she didn't find it entirely unpleasant either. His presence was always calm- something she found rather relaxing. He almost never rose his voice, got overly frustrated with her (no matter how many times she made mistakes), or let any emotions he had interfere with what had to be done. She admittedly found that confidence, power, and calm demeanor comforting. Safe.

"I suppose not. But it's still odd to think of you in a more personal fashion. Our relationship had always been more professional," she finally replied.

"Father Vittorio and I had a similar rapport. He was a mentor, and a friend." Just the barest tinge to his voice gave away his minor feeling of loss.

Diana was really starting to notice the little things with him. Everything on his expression or in his voice was so subtle that even she had formerly missed it all. But their time living in close proximity allowed her to pick up on the small details- from the minor tonal changes to the slight changes on his mostly-stoic expression (mostly centered around his eyes). Even his shrugs could be practically unnoticed if one wasn't looking for any minor changes in how he moved.

"Did you live at the church the whole two years you went AWOL?" Diana's tone was full of curiosity. Even now, most of 47 was a mystery. He didn't talk about his past unless she pried- very much a man for the here-and-now.

"Most of it."

She gave a few nods. "Why leave?"

"I chose solitude, rather than allow my presence to endanger anyone further."

"Aren't you endangering me?" she joked at him mildly, smirking up at the powerful assassin. She'd become rather used to him, and so he wasn't quite as imposing.

"You are prudent- careful- capable. If anyone can survive being around me- it's you." He was a great deal more serious than her.

Diana blushed a bit at the compliments. It was natural. Even if she didn't see him as romantic material- he wasn't one to give such compliments unless he believed them to be true. 47 was a very honest man. He'd even expressed his distaste for a few of her old clothing options. Even had some suggestions- all of which she absolutely loved. The cuts, the colors- he had an eye for it. Then again- the man was extremely well-dressed. It shouldn't come as a surprise at all.

"Well, I suppose I _am_ the only one who ever got close enough to poison you." She grinned at him playfully.

47's eyes narrowed a little, but the slight glint in them betrayed his amusement. "I returned the favor," he joked back.

Diana's hand went to the non-fatal wound he'd given her. Being shot by one of those damn Ballers was rather unpleasant. But she imagined being poisoned wasn't much fun, either. "Well, _you_ probably don't even have a scar. You bloody shot _me_." Her tone was still very playful. She was enjoying this- perhaps a bit too much.

He very nearly laughed, actively giving a slight amused scoffing noise. Just the very edge of his mouth so slightly curved upwards that if Diana hadn't been so close, she wouldn't have even seen it. But it was gone as fast as it came. "Needles are too small to leave permanent wounds on me," he mused. "But I have been shot, as you well know."

She gave a nod as her eyes drifted down to the shadow of the wound he mentioned. "Yes, well- was it a .45?"

"Glock 22. Slightly smaller caliber- more ammunition." He was so very matter-of-fact about it.

"Just how many do yours hold?"

"Seven. Pretty standard with .45s, custom or not. Glock 22's carry fifteen rounds, standard." He looked down at her, locking eyes.

She gawked at him awkwardly. "You know- you have way too much firearm knowledge."

"A contract killer should know their weapons, Diana. Socialization is a secondary skill, at best."

She supposed he was right. It was still mildly astounding- his plethora of knowledge. Not only about weapons, but about people. He had very little real social skill, but he could mimic it in an instant. He knew how people thought, to allow him to easily predict their movements. Not to mention his extensive knowledge of anatomy, toxins, and improvisation.

After a while, 47 stood, picking up his pistol and moving over to the chair. It was time for sleep. He sat, pistol set beside him, watching her.

Diana got up as well, and went to get her night clothes.. "You get some rest. I still need a shower." She went over to click off all but the bedside light. It wasn't really necessary- 47 could sleep with light. But she found it polite. Once things were turned off, she headed for the bathroom.

"Good night."

His voice startled her a bit, and she looked over. "Good night." Then she sauntered into the bathroom to get a shower before curling up on the bed. Maybe tomorrow, she'd ask him why he didn't sleep on the sofa.


	15. 14- Routine

The next morning, she woke early to find 47 missing. She gave a long yawn and stretch, wandering over to inspect what outfit he'd taken. The work-out clothing was missing- his slacks from last night neatly folded into his 'dirty' pile, if she could even call it that. He was so precise, that sometimes she felt that he was more machine than man. She knew better- but it didn't stop the thought.

He must have gone out for a run, as he usually did in the early AM. Probably amongst other things- but she never pried into his routine. It wasn't like she was about to wake up at exactly 5:30am to join him on a run or whatever he did. Too early.

It was 6am now- still pretty early for her. She decided to take first turn in the restroom for once- preparing herself for the day. Though- she had no clue what he had planned for her for today. Some days, it was training of some sort- especially when he wasn't on a job. Others, it was running errands for him. It freed him up for other things, like getting up-to-speed with the world around him, brushing up on new weaponry, or keeping his own weapons maintained. She had once seen him strip down his Ballers, clean and oil them, and reassemble in under two minutes.

It was impressive as Hell. She was still learning to maintain the 9mm he'd given her, having to earn a higher-caliber weapon. In fact- she had to earn each new level of training. They had begun quite basic. Sharpshooting wasn't her specialty in the least- but her hand-to-hand was getting better. She'd never gotten him to use both hands to deflect her blows like she had last night. It was progress. But frankly, she wasn't looking forward to 47 going on the offensive. Yes, he'd taught her to fall- but that was basically just tossing her onto a mat repeatedly. They didn't even use mats now, and she doubted they would again.

She had to admit- he was the best teacher she'd ever had. He was exceptionally patient, and knew exactly how to demonstrate a move and get her to follow it. The self defense classes in college and from the Agency weren't even close.

When she finished up in the restroom, she went to make breakfast. 47 could cook a bit- enough to survive even without money and restaurants- but she was a great deal better at it. Usually, he just fetched something after he showered in the morning from housekeeping or a nearby restaurant. She was rarely up early enough to prevent it.

At 6:15 on the nose, 47 returned, sweat staining his shirt slightly, and creating dots of moisture on his bald head. He grabbed a spare towel from the closet to wipe down with. "You're up early," he pointed out. He didn't need to look- as he could smell the finishing food, and hear her busily going about things in the kitchenette.

Diana glared over at him mildly. "Well, maybe I think you should eat real food now and then."

"I eat real food..." he objected.

"You order out more than a college student." Her tone sounded almost motherly. "Honestly, I don't know how you manage to stay so healthy."

"Efficient metabolism." He went to take a shower and change at that point. He wasn't about to have a meal while sweaty.

Diana groaned a little at the answer. Genetically engineered or not- 47 desperately needed a better diet, in her opinion. The high calories probably burned off easily for him, but still. Maybe it was just that she felt that everyone deserved home-made meals. The restaurants and such weren't devoid of healthy choices, after all- and 47 did actually keep an eye on what he took in, as far as vitamins and minerals were concerned. But he amazingly went through 2200-2500 calories per day, working or not. She could only dream of a metabolism like that.

Then again- he worked out at least twice as much as she did in his off-time. And his job was fairly physically demanding. Maybe she could use a bit more physical training. She wasn't going to be scaling pipes or cliffs any time soon- but surely she could get in better shape. Probably a good idea, actually. Never know when the need to flee a safehouse might come. But the thought of even trying to keep up with 47's pace made her a bit faint.

He would have more endurance than normal, probably. _A better human indeed,_ she mused to herself. Even his mind was sharper than average. She bet his IQ would easily equal that of a lead scientist- but he spent it almost entirely on the job. Ask him to calculate pi and he'd probably stare at you blankly, but ask him how to disarm a firearm wielding opponent unarmed, and he could go through each step flawlessly. She gave her eyes a roll at the thought.

 _Better at killing, maybe. But not better at being human._ She frowned at her thoughts. 47 had humanity- he just hid it from everyone but her. And even she had to actively look for it to see it most of the time.

When 47 emerged in a pair of slacks and nothing else, breakfast was ready. He went to take a seat at the table with her. Eating, as usual, was done in silence. He was very much the type to speak after a meal- never during.

By now, Diana was used to it. She even enjoyed it. No mouthful of food trying to go down when talking. Less awkward conversation- even with him, which was awkward as a matter of course. After breakfast, it was 47 who did the dishes. She just watched him. "47?"

The man gave her only a questioning 'mm' sound, so she continued. "Why don't you sleep on the sofa?"

He gave her an odd look, then went back to the dishes. Perhaps she couldn't calculate size like he could- just by looking. So he explained his reasoning for choosing the chair in this particular instance. "It's too short. Not much- but enough."

"Too short? I could sprawl on that thing."

"You're not over six feet tall, either," he pointed out.

She resigned the point. "Isn't sleeping in the chair just as uncomfortable?"

"Not really. I'm used to sleeping sitting up- it was sometimes a necessity. But as I don't often sleep curled up when prone, it is a great deal more uncomfortable to be unable to fully lie flat."

Diana grumped at him mildly. It was plausible- he wasn't the sort to curl up too much. And he slept so softly that the slightest noise usually brought him awake in a snap. When they had first started living like this- he was so unaccustomed to the extra body that he would constantly startle her with his snapping awake. He was more used to her now- not waking to her noise. But if anything seemed out of place- that was another story. 47 was more paranoid than most soldiers she knew. For good reason, though.

"You don't seem the sort to care if he's comfortable or not, 47," she noted playfully.

"Minor discomfort is tolerable. But I would sleep on a floor before a sofa that didn't fit me." He finished the dishes, and dried his hands on the small towel near the sink.

It was moderately amusing to watch him do something so mundane. She let this line of conversation dwindle, now igniting a new one. "Do you think I should train more? I'm not sure what to expect, living around you. Except that trouble finds you now and then- and it might be good to be able to get out like you do."

47 returned the towel to its placement, and turned to her. The glance he gave her said it all. He had just been waiting for her to ask. Her safety, while it was his concern as well, could be easier to keep with her at a higher level of fitness- at least endurance if not speed. Avoiding and being able to outlast people was just as useful as being able to outrun them outright.

She wasn't a hunter like him. So she didn't need to be able to close the distance on a target. She just needed the skills to escape with him if things got hairy. "So when do we start?"

"Now. You'll start running with me in the mornings. For now, we'll work on avoiding capture."

The glint in his eyes was dangerous, and Diana knew it. She swallowed to try and fix her suddenly-dry throat. "So stealth training?"

"Among other things."

Diana was sure she didn't want to know what the 'other things' consisted of. But she knew she would soon find out.


	16. 15-Training

Diana was right about not wanting to know what 'other things' 47 had planned for her as far as the current training went. He'd made her wear something comfortable and flexible, but almost all black- slightly akin to his own suit, which had been specifically tailored for him. For now, hers was mostly just simple cotton- a t-shirt and comfortable slacks, along with sneakers. She'd have to learn in this before he'd advance her to doing it in more dressy clothing- this, she knew.

But she was currently somewhere she would really rather not be- crawling around in a dark water pipe that wasn't large enough for her to stand fully upright- let alone 47. But he moved silently through it professionally, his crouched position and practiced footfalls looking easy. They weren't. She couldn't crouch as well as him,and almost everything they did (even not in the pipes) was in this position. Her legs burned with complaint.

Her footfalls, too, were noisy, despite her efforts.47 had shown her how to walk quietly- heel to toe, and careful of where the step landed. But he had also mentioned it would take a bit of practice to do it properly. He wasn't lying, for sure. She could barely see the man in front of her- and he was only a few feet away. How did he see where to go?

After some time, she finally saw light at the end. Thank goodness. She wasn't sure how much more of this closed-in pipe she could take. Expertly, 47 twisted around at the tunnel's end, and lowered himself to the ground. She barely heard the tap of his stylish business shoes.

When she got to the end, she looked down at 47. The drop was taller than he was- maybe eight feet or so. It lead out onto a paved area that took the water outside the city, to another section of pipeline several meters away. She wasn't sure she could drop down like that and not hurt herself. So she froze.

47 looked up at her as he straightened out his suit. After a mild sigh, he reached up his hands towards her. Not quite ready for an eight foot drop, he imagined. "Drop down. I've got you."

Diana swallowed hard, and tried to scoot her way over the edge. Her hands slipped, and she fell with a loud yelp. She cringed, expecting to fall quite hard- but 47's strong arms easily caught her, and lowered her down safely. After a moment of hearing her heart beat so hard she thought it would burst, she looked up at him, eyes still a bit wide from the rush of adrenaline. "Can we not do that again?" she pleaded.

The assassin gave her a stern look. "You have to learn to land from heights eventually." He straightened his jacket and sleeves again.

She groaned a little, and stretched out. Her back and legs hurt. And she knew they were quite a distance from the car. "I wasn't expecting to crawl through a drainage pipe on my first day out here, 47."

"No- one usually doesn't. That's the point. You need to expect anything, and learn to adapt." He moved away now to climb up a pipe so he could get out of the ditch.

"Hey, what about me? I thought we agreed no pipes."

"I made no such agreement. You want to learn from me, then do what I ask of you, and stop complaining."

Diana hated him right now. She grabbed onto the pipe, and slowly started making her way up. Thankfully, she only slid once. And he _did_ actually help her up once she got to the top. His leather glove creaked softly as his hand grasped hers to pull her up. Her own glove didn't creak, but it only had leather on the grips. No doubt, he would get her full leather gloves like his own at some point. These were simply what she had. They would keep her hands from getting too scraped up, at least. "I see. _Now_ you're a gentleman," she joked at him.

"I could always shove you back in the ditch and let you crawl onto the edge on your own," he mused back.

Well- at least training didn't soften his odd sense of humor. She just huffed at him. "What next?"

"Next, we walk back to the car."

"That's it?" The glint in his eyes told her that it wasn't. Dread filled into her chest.

"You're going to lead the way. If you make a mistake or make too much noise, I will make you do sections over again. I have a mental map of the area. You must make your way to the car through three sections- each half a kilometer long."

"You mean we're a click-and-a-half away from where we parked?"

"Yes."

Shit. She sighed heavily, and looked around, trying to get her bearings- trying to remember how many turns they'd taken in the waterway. "Can you at least give me an initial direction?"

He pointed out one gloved hand, towards the direction she thought might be south-west. "That way. More or less."

 _More or less._ Ugh. why did she ask him for more training? This was going to take the entire rest of the day. "What if it gets dark? I won't even be able to see."

"Then I suppose you should try to return before dark."

"You're joking. You won't take over if the sun falls?"

"I know how to navigate blind. Low-light is no problem for me. But it's a problem for you. So get us back to the car before darkness fully takes the sky." He slid his sleeve up to look at his watch. "You have just over four hours."

She gave another groan, not fond of the thought of having to make camp because she couldn't see to find her way out of here. 47 probably wouldn't even care. It wouldn't bother him. So she started on a small trail in the direction he had pointed. This was going to be a long walk. And they had only one small bottle of water that she was carrying in her left hand.

***

The barest hint of sun was still on the horizon when they finally made it back to the car. By the end, she looked worn out and ragged. She'd fallen down a hill once, and was covered in debris thanks to that. Her hair was messy from tree branches also, and her gloves were practically destroyed from falling on gravel after losing her footing- and accidentally grabbing a rather sharp tree limb. Thankfully, her pants had mostly protected her knees from the gravel. They'd still be a bit scraped, though.

47, though- he was completely unscathed- immaculate. There was barely any trail dust on his shoes and slacks, which he skillfully removed with a cloth from the car. He didn't even look the slightest bit tired or worn- not even sweaty.

She really wanted to punch him right in that strong jaw of his. "At least we made it."

"Not bad, considering your lack of expertise in terrain." He poured himself into the car. She wanted to be a trainee now- so that would mean less door-opening. It didn't mean he was less of a gentleman- it meant he was allowing her independence. Perhaps he was even showing respect for her.

Diana got into the car also, quickly buckling up. "You're a bastard, you know that?"

"You asked for this."

The drive back to the flat was spent in silence. Only when they neared the building did Diana finally speak again. "So who gets first shower?"

"You can have it."

 _Well, at least he isn't_ all _bad,_ she thought.


	17. 16- Peril

It wasn't the first time he'd had to escape a situation this intense. But it was the first time for Diana. He admired that she was trying to stay calm, despite the flames raging around them- debris and carnage all around from the crashed helicopter. At least this time, someone wasn't trying to kill him. It had been after someone else. But the chopper had been hit with a rocket launcher. Criminals packed some serious heat. It had sent the chopper straight into their high-rise building, though.

No doubt, 47 would eventually have a contract for the one responsible. For now, he concentrated on getting both of them out of there alive.

Fortunately, both of them had sustained very minor injuries. The crash had happened just far enough away to only toss small debris at them. He had a few fresh wounds scattered on his backside from head to ankles. Diana had only a few minor wounds on her forearms. He had taken the brunt of it when he heard the chopper come towards the building.

The stairs were completely blocked off by the debris on one end- by fire on the other. They would soon catch fire too if they didn't get out very soon. As they moved down the hall, they edged towards an emergency case that contained an axe and a crowbar. It took them too close to the gaping wound in the building, but there was little choice. Even he couldn't get to the only escape left without something to pry open the doors.

Diana followed close behind him- stepping where he stepped, but it didn't matter. The floor gave way under her, and she screamed. In the time it took most people to even register the occurrence, 47's hand was already on the move. His gloved right hand snatched her left wrist in the blink of an eye. The left very nearly missed the nearby banister looking over the cavity in the center of the building. He released a pained noise as his arm threatened to dislocate under the free-falling weight of a grown woman. A sprain, thankfully.

His powerful muscles moved to lift her back up using the one arm and his legs- steadying himself with the other hand on the very small precipice left of floor by the banister. It, too, was threatening to give way. He forced her ahead of him, and moved along himself after her.

Diana was far too concerned with the chaos (and the fact she almost fell to her death just now) to say anything to him.

47 busted open the case at last- and took the crowbar, dragging her to one of the four elevators. They would all be on the bottom- shut down for the fire. He pried open the door with the bar using all of his strength. The bar bent, but the door finally gave way. He used his hands to push them open further once the mechanism that held them closed was basically destroyed.

When she looked at what he was doing, her eyes went wide. Oh Hell no! They were on the 27th floor! If they fell, they would both die- period.

He noticed her distress. "Do you trust me?" His voice was still calm, despite everything. Flames burning- the side of the building slowly losing strength- giving way under its own weight above the 20th floor's west side.

She swallowed hard, but nodded.

The moment she confirmed, he lifted her up onto his back. "Hold on, but don't choke me. The last thing we need is for me to pass out."

 _Yeah- that would be bad_ , Diana thought worriedly. But then again- they'd be just as dead if he missed the cables, or if his grip faltered for even a moment. Her left arm hugged tightly to one side of his neck, and clasped the opposite shoulder- the other holding onto her own arm in a death-grip. Her legs were wrapped around his waist.

47 judged the distance and the extra weight, stepped back a bit, and took a running leap into the elevator shaft. The world seemed to just slow down as the adrenaline ran high for both of them. One miscalculation, and it was all over.

Cables clacked together as their weight hit against them, and the assassin's strong arms latched on. In the next instant, his feet found their places to either side of one cable.

For a moment, they just hung there as 47 adjusted himself so they could safely descend. He would be needing a new suit. Again. It didn't much matter, though. First things first.

For the first seven floors, he loosened up his grip significantly, causing them to basically repel down the shaft. Once he could feel the cable start making its way too far into his gloves, he slowed down, now using a more military-style rope descent. It was a long damn way down, and with Diana's added weight, it was a challenge even for him.

After what seemed to be ages, they finally reached the bottom. He let Diana off his back, but they weren't out of the woods yet- the fires had reached the shaft. Quickly, 47 lifted the maintenance hatch open. He dropped down into the elevator, and practically tore the control panel off to mess with the wires.

Diana followed him into the elevator, falling over as she hit the floor. He did this on a normal basis? At least the thing with the maintenance hatch. She got to her feet and dusted herself off a bit, trying to see what he was doing.

His nimble fingers quickly worked at the wiring, crossing some and disabling others.

When the doors opened, she knew what he'd done. He'd had to bypass the fire shut down so the doors would open. It still wouldn't go anywhere, but they could escape now.

Quickly, the pair made their way out the building to the parking lot. As they had parked in the west lot, they made it to the vehicle easily. And just like that- they were gone. All the the gear- all their clothes- everything. Gone. Just like that.

Diana leaned into the seat with a heavy sigh. "Now what?"

"Now we go to the secondary safehouse and re-establish contact with the Agency."

She was somewhat surprised. Secondary? Did he always have a secondary? She couldn't recall. As his handler, she really only knew the ones the Agency supplied, and none of those ever seemed like secondaries. But he also surprised her to simply move on like that. He was completely unphased. She was shaking like Hell.

"You know, the fact you can stay calm under that much pressure is a bit spooky..."

"If I didn't- we would be dead."

 _True_ , she responded mentally. For once, she was really thankful for his skill and his spooky level of calm and focus.

Just another day as a hitman, she supposed.


	18. 17- Murder Mystery

Weeks later, just as 47 had thought, he was passed the contract for the man who'd very nearly killed Diana and himself completely by accident: A heavy arms dealer based out of St. Louis. He felt no tint of revenge. In fact, like with every contract save one, he felt nothing at all. It was like a switch went off in his brain, turning off what humanity and conscience he had. Everything was numb- business. He would get no pleasure from this. Nor would he mourn the life he would take.

If he went to a psychiatrist, he'd probably be diagnosed with some form of sociopathy. While he had sought redemption at one point, it didn't make what he did any better. He'd known then that feeling numb like this- that feeling no remorse for ending a life- was wrong. That's why he'd gone to Father Vittorio- why he'd left this behind for two years. But he had to leave that behind or risk innocent people. But just because he knew he should feel something didn't change that he was completely numb.

Now, he was risking Diana every time he returned home. It was probably the only thing he felt any amount of remorse for anymore. But Diana could take care of herself- especially now. He didn't need to worry about her as he had before. And right now, he couldn't afford to dwell on any of that.

Right now, as he stepped out of the high-class hotel elevator, he only had time for one thing: the job.

Antoine Cassidy, 47's target, was hosting a Murder Mystery party tonight, and he had gotten himself an invitation under the name Patrick Hutchens. Antoine would play the dead guy, who the guests would then solve the murder of. All fake, of course. Except that he was here to ensure that it, in fact, was not fake.

At the beginning of the party, each guest would be given a small envelop containing the character they would portray. One of them would be 'The Killer,' but all of them would have some specific character traits to have fun with. Clues were spread around the top floor of the hotel, there for anyone to find and solve the 'murder.' Antoine had already chosen the how, when, and where that he would be 'killed.'

He had no idea that at the start of the party, when everyone went their own ways to solve the murder for a handsome sum of money, 47 would part himself off from the other guests, double back to the 'corpse,' and kill him for real. The other guests would be too busy finding clues to even realize. He would just have to slip out before someone found out he was really dead. Before someone found the fake killer.

The envelope was handed to him, but he wasn't allowed to look at it until the murder happened, just like everyone else.

Dinner went on forever. The food was alright, but the entertainment was terrible. Fortunately, the lights went out, and everyone screamed.

When the lights came back on, Antoine was on the floor, pretending to be dead. They were instructed by the butler to now remove their slips from the envelopes, and to memorize them, then throw them in the fire.

The one 47 received read 'Elite businessman. Snobby British.' Not difficult. At least he didn't get one of the more colorful characters. And it meant he wasn't the fake killer as well as the real one.

"You may now split up either into teams or solo to solve the murder. Remember, if you are on a team, you will split the prize." With that said, everyone aside from couples went off solo, including 47.

He had to wait in a nearby room, and make sure the guests were far enough away. Antoine would eventually go sit in a chair by the fireplace, and send his butler to fetch him a warm blanket so he could catch a nap while the game went on.

This was his chance. He emerged from the small room he was in, and crept over to Antoine in absolute silence. Slowly, he pulled the fiber wire from his jacket, and prepared its tension in his hands. When he got close, he quickly put the wire around Antoine's neck, and held it tight until the man went limp.

He made sure to pose the body like he'd fallen asleep, then quickly made his exit from the room before the butler returned. With any luck, the butler would assume he'd just fallen asleep without the blanket- at least for now.

With his job done, he moved through the rooms towards his exit point- a window that lead to a strong drainage pipe he could climb down. He'd simply take it down to the lower level, and escape the area through the alley where the garbage was picked up and supplies were dropped off.

Unexpectedly, someone stalked into the room after him. He thought they had a weapon, and very nearly pulled his own. But he soon noticed it was just a gun-hand gesture. "Bang." the short man said.

"Ah. So you're the killer. I'm dead now, yes?"

"That's how it works. You lose, Pat." The man chuckled, and walked away to find another victim. To win- he'd have to 'kill' all the other guests before he was caught.

47 didn't much care that he'd lost the pointless game. No one would even notice he left, actually- as he was supposed to be 'dead' like the host. So he simply made his way out.

Murder Mysteries made _actual_ murder way too easy.


	19. 18- Rainy Day

It was a wonderful spring day in Boulder, Colorado- or it would be, if it hadn't decided to rain. At least, as far as Diana was concerned- because now, she was soaked to the bone. The weather had said it would be slightly cloudy, and so she had left her umbrella back at the hotel. Definitely a mistake.

Come to think of it, she couldn't remember 47 having taken an umbrella with him, either. He had a job here that, he said, should be over quickly. It meant he, too, was working in the rain.

Diana herself was trying not to get rain on 47's dry cleaning, thankful for the plastic covering. But still- there was a chance of it getting wet through a small hole where the hanger poked through. She hurried her way down the street towards the car, shopping bags definitely getting dinner wet.

Once she reached the car, she went into her purse for the keys, fumbling them. She growled as they fell under the car, and she set the bags and dry cleaning on the top of the car. "Bloody hell." She got down on her hands and knees to fetch the keys, where her nylons caught asphalt and tore open.

Agitated, she stretched to reach the keys, snatched them up, and went to get to her feet so she could open the car door already. The bags and dry cleaning were missing. Her heart stopped. Oh no. Those suits were damn expensive. The dinner could be forgiven- but not the bloody suit. It was then that she noticed the reflection in the window of a man standing behind her. She very nearly jumped out of her skin as she whipped around with her pepper spray.

A gloved hand expertly disarmed her before she could spray him. The other held the supplies and dry cleaning that had been on the car. But now, at least, there was an excuse for not hearing him.

Diana very nearly punched him. But she knew she'd hurt herself before hurting him. "Goddammit, 47!" she yelled at him. "You scared me half to death!"

"I hear I do that to a lot of people."

"What are you doing here?"

47 gestured to a nearby restaurant that was now swarming with activity. "I was in the area."

She didn't even know that his assignment had been so close- or she'd have gone to the other Chinese place for dinner. It was just that she liked this one a bit better, despite it's slightly greater distance. Had he known she'd go there? Was he expecting a lift home after murdering a man? "Just get in," she griped before unlocking the car and getting out of the rain herself.

The assassin complied, settling the suit and food in the back seat before taking the passenger seat. Usually, he drove when they traveled together. But it wasn't as awkward for him as it obviously was for her. She was shaking like a leaf- both from cold and nerves. "Do you want me to drive?"

"Nope. I got it." She started the car, and merged with the traffic. "So did you know I'd be there?"

"No."

"So you just what? Saw me, and decided to just get a ride home?" she hissed at him grumpily.

"More or less."

That damned blank tone was getting on her nerves today. She was wet, grouchy, and thoroughly done with his shit. "Gah! You are so frustrating! I should make you walk back to the hotel!" she fumed, trying to keep her eyes on the road as she snapped at him.

47 looked over at her oddly. "Bad day?"

"I'm soaking wet- my nylons are trashed- we're living out of a dingy hotel that isn't really big enough for both of us- and you came out of nowhere to give me a bloody heart attack! What the Hell do you think?" She smacked him a few times, just to make her feel better. "Don't ever do that again, dammit!"

He let her smack him, not really caring. If it calmed her down, he could take it. "It wasn't my intention to, as you say, 'give you a heart attack,' Diana."

It was as close to an apology as she was getting. "Why the Hell did I agree to be a room mate with a bloody assassin?" She seethed almost the whole way back to the hotel. But the silence that followed her question calmed her down. Mostly because she got to thinking about what she said. Room mate with an assassin. Not just any assassin. A bloody ghost. His job was to be quiet. Dammit.

"Sorry, 47." She pulled into the hotel with a long sigh. "It's just been one of those days."

"I know the feeling." He got out of the car when she switched it off, and fetched everything out of the back.

" _You_ have off-days?" She had to laugh at the thought. 47 with an off day. Right. She locked up the car and went to the door with him. Since the job was over, they would probably move again soon. She was thankful for that. This small hotel room had her at wits end. The soaked clothes didn't help.

"I did when I was helping Victoria." He unlocked and opened the door for her, allowing her to enter first, then following. He was a bit wet too, but he didn't care.

Diana turned to him, raising a brow. "You never told me about what happened when you were helping her..."

"You should know by now that I don't talk about jobs."

"I thought it was a favor?"

"Favor. Job. It's all the same." He put the suit away and set the food on the bed. There was no table. There was barely a room at all. Just a bed, one chair, and one dresser with a small TV. There was a very tiny closet on one wall, and a door leading to a small bathroom on the other. Not even a tub- just a small shower that was too short for a man of 47's height.

Diana wondered if he had to lean over to wash his head in there, actually. She gave a light chuckle at the thought as she stripped out of her wet clothes. It wasn't like 47 would care if she got into her PJs right in front of him. She'd since stopped being shy around him, because he never took his eyes away from hers. They never strayed at all. It was like he wasn't even curious. Maybe he wasn't. Do contract killers have libidos?

"What's so funny?" He slid out of his jacket and hung it up to dry on a hook meant for a plant by the window.

"Well.. you are, actually. More, the thought of you in that tiny little shower. _I_ barely fit under the head." She laughed some more and finished getting dressed before sitting down to pull food from the bag along with the disposable utensils.

"I manage," he noted flatly before sitting in the chair. When she handed him his food, he opened it, and began eating, careful not to drop any on his shirt. He was, in fact, very skilled at this (and the chopsticks).

Diana opted for a fork. She was British- chopsticks were hard. As always, food time was not for talking. So she waited until they were both done, tossing the containers and utensils for them both. "You're too practical sometimes, you know that?"

Since he didn't answer, but had his gaze fixed on her regardless, she cleared her throat a little. "So when do we get to leave this tiny hole-in-the-wall."

"If you feel up to travel, we can leave tonight."

"In the rain? We can wait until morning."

"You're British- you should be used to rain." His eyes lit up with amusement at her dislike for rain.

"Just because I'm used to it doesn't mean I have to like it." She sprawled out on the bed stared at the closed blinds. "Do you ever just stop to smell the roses? Or have fun? Just do something for the spontaneity?"

"No."

She grumped at him, but the answer was expected. "Like I said. Practical."

"Practicality keeps me alive. And now, it keeps you alive."

Diana heaved a long sigh in irritation and resignation. "But it's not very amusing."

"Amusement is for normal people, Diana. I'm a hitman." Meaning his life was far from normal.

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean you have to be a stick in the mud. Isn't there anything you just do for fun?"

He gave a light shrug. "I challenge myself at one of the Agency's firing ranges."

She groaned. "Ugh. That isn't fun."

"Then no."

"Boring."

He didn't argue.


	20. 19- Winter Wonderland

One week before Christmas, Diana finally convinced 47 to actually go out of the loft with her. So long as they wouldn't be seen together in a way that anyone would recognize them. Which meant no suit, and something to cover his tattoo. They were walking along the side of a large public ice skating rink.

Diana opted for a warm deep red jacket with fur lining the edge of the hood and on the cuffs, thick black pants, and fur-topped dark brown snow boots with rubber along the toes and bottoms to keep out water. Her hands were covered with thermal gloves, and her head was almost hidden under a fashionable fur hat and thick knit scarf.

47, on the other hand, had opted for something more plain. Blue winter-weight coat, blue snow-resistant pants, darker blue beanie, black snow boots. He wasn't even wearing a scarf- but his hands were tucked in his normal leather gloves. No one who didn't know him on-sight would even know he was bald- let alone that he was a legendary assassin. The coat was open just enough to gain him easy access to his weapons, baring the thick black shirt underneath.

No one would hear (or care) her say his name was 47. People like this, gathering under the bright shining Christmas lights, wouldn't bother with them at all. The large, brightly-decorated tree wasn't far from the rink, along with other decorations in the area. "Well, 47? Isn't this nice? Just getting out for a bit?"

"This is a bad idea," he replied coldly.

"47, this is New York. No one cares. Half the people here are probably criminals in one form or another. Some of them have probably killed more people than _you_ have." Diana had to chuckle at him a bit. He was always so paranoid. But here in the square- especially this time of year- people were far more interested in their phones- or in their dates, or friends. No one would even notice the hitman walking amongst them.

"Some of them might know me by reputation."

"And that, my friend, is why you're wearing that." She poked at his beanie a bit. "It's almost Christmas. Loosen up a little." She smirked at him, and grabbed his coat sleeve. "Let's go skating."

"You aren't serious." Yet, he was following her. Mostly so he wouldn't lose her in the sea of bodies. He'd worked around crowds before- he was even good at spotting a target in a massive crowd. But Diana could easily be swept far away from him in the flow of foot-traffic. People instinctively gave him space- but not her.

"Oh, I am." She shoved him towards the booth renting skates. "It'll be fun. You _can_ skate, can't you?"

47 made a mildly annoyed noise. "I can, if the need arises."

Diana grinned up at him. "Pretend there's someone on the ice that you're here to kill. Now go get us some skates." When the person in front of her stared over her shoulder, she grinned. "Not literally."

 _Why am I even doing this?_ he chastised himself. But he complied, waiting in line for the skates. She needed socialization. Apparently, normal people went a little crazy without it. And frankly, he could tolerate a little outdoors better than Diana with cabin fever. He didn't get annoyed easily, and she was driving him up a wall with all the pacing and cleaning. _Because I'll go insane without it. I need a contract._

This time of year was more often devoid or lacking in contracts than not, though. Holiday spirit and all that. It wasn't something he understood more than as a case study. When he had the skates, he walked over to Diana, who'd claimed a spot for them on the benches. His gloved hand held hers out until she took them, then he sat and went to removing his own boots to replace them with skates.

Diana smiled at him brightly, and changed out of her boots. It was just nice to get out and do _anything_ , but she had to admit that convincing a hitman to ice skate with her was definitely the highlight. Snow was falling- making lit the white specks glitter under the tiny lights, contrasting the darkened sky above. And now, she was getting 47, of all people, out on the ice with her.

Then, it struck her like a truck. The man she considered as her very best friend in all her life- the man she had tagged along with so he wouldn't be alone forever- her former co-worker- was a bloody hitman. He killed people for money, with no remorse. Yet he was her closest and most trusted friend. A man who felt nothing for anyone. In that instant, she knew that he felt the same way. He trusted her more than anyone- even Father Vittorio. 47 was socializing with her because he felt the need to. Because they were friends- and that's what friends do.

She smiled up at him as she finished tying on her skates. Since he'd gotten the skates, she took the boots to a locker. He was waiting for her when she returned, and they went out to skate with the rest of the crowd. Admittedly, it had been a bit.. awkward, and she very nearly fell down quite a bit for the first few minutes- 47 easily catching her each time.

"Can _you_ skate?" he joked at her lightly.

"Oh, shut it, twinkle-toes."

He very nearly laughed at her. But once she was stable, he joined the faster lane of skaters closer to the center. Made it look easy.

Diana glared daggers at him as he passed by her after a round- backwards. "Showoff." She knew he was just teasing her- but it was good to see him be a little more.. well.. carefree. Or he was just testing his balance and speed on the ice.

After the next pass, he slowed back down to skate more with her. It had been a while since he'd needed to do this for anything. But he didn't really get rusty.

She wrapped his arm with his, and skated a while longer before they left. Best friends with a hitman. It was strange- but in a good way. Who else could say that?

Once they retrieved their boots and returned the skates, they went for a lengthy walk to Central Park.

Diana grinned, snatched up some snow to form a ball, and hurled it at 47. He naturally blocked it, but she wiggled her brows.

The man gave her an odd look, but still gathered up a ball of snow. "I suggest you run. I don't miss."

She laughed, and ran away, hiding behind a tree to get some snow. Was he really going to have a snowball fight with her? It wasn't a bad thing- it just didn't much seem like him. As she poked her head out to get a bead on him, she got a shock of cold snow straight to the face. Squeaking, she very nearly dropped her snowball. Spotting him, she chucked the ball, picked up anther, and ran as she tossed that one. Neither hit more than his coat.

47 was relentless, though, Every time she thought she was going to get the upper hand- he hit her with a snowball or two. He did, in fact, never miss.

Not like her. Some shots weren't even close. But she eventually grew tired and flopped down in the snow, staring up at the sky. As he came to stand over her, she tossed some loose snow up at him, spraying all over his front side. She gave a giggle that turned into a squeal when he kicked some snow onto her in retaliation. "Ah! Hey! You hit me enough already!" But she was still laughing.

He just stood there, so she continued, staring up into his eyes. "I haven't done this since I was a little girl. Thank you, 47."

"That's what friends are for, isn't it?" He offered her a hand, leaning down a bit so she could even reach it. when she took the hand, he effortlessly pulled her to her feet.

"It is. You're a good friend. Not good with the expressions- but you're good with getting out of your comfort zone for a few hours for me." She adjusted her hat and poked him in the chest. "No. _Best_ friend."

That, he figured, was why he put up with her quirks. And why she put up with his. She made him feel human. He made her feel safe. It was a good friendship. "We should head back."

"Yeah. But can we stop for dinner on the way?"

"We can pick some up."

After they got food from a 24-hour deli, they returned to the flat, took off coats and hats, and sat down to eat in stereo. Only after eating did Diana speak, as usual. "47, why do you let me get away with blowing your routine? I'm probably going to get us killed with the cabin fever."

"Frankly, you drive me crazy when you're antsy."

Well, at least he was honest. "Do you ever lie?"

"Not to you, if I can help it."

"Why?"

"Trust."

She smiled at him, and laughed a bit. "So I lost your trust, gained it, now we're best friends. And now you're sitting here with a person who _isn't_ an assassin like you, and you're just letting her talk you into things you would never do."

"Your friendship is all I have that isn't death," he said truthfully. He was a killer- and he was good at it. But there had been a part of him that no longer wanted that- the part that had befriended Vittorio- the part that had spared her. That one last shred of humanity.

Her smile turned into a frown. "47..." She wasn't even sure what to say. It just made her sad. She was literally a window into his humanity. It was both lifting and depressing. He's basically told her that herself- but she'd never seen it quite as well as she did now. Maybe it was just all the downtime recently. It was getting to both of them. Only 47 would never let it make him any less effective.

"You're literally the best friend I've ever had. And your name is a number." She laughed a little, trying to lighten up the mood.

"I'm well aware."

She got to her feet, and went to stand behind him, giving the scar in the middle of his barcode a poke. "Why did you feel the need to try and cut this off, anyway?"

"I couldn't be part of that anymore. Not how it was. So I removed what they identified as.. me."

"You did a piss-poor job of it," she pointed out. "Looks like you didn't cut deep enough to remove it. And you missed a bit."

"You try cutting a code off the back of your head- then you can nitpick," he joked at her slyly. His tone barely changed, but he knew she could always pick up the subtleties.

She gave a snort. "Thanks, but no. I'm not into the idea of a tattoo on my head." Her fingers brushed under the numbers gently. "I can still read the code. I don't think I ever asked what it means. Do you even know?"

"I barely remember the code. When I was born, they didn't have the technology for the UPC. It was added later, when I was older." He let her touch him, not really minding her curiosity. "Yes. I know what it means."

"Will you tell me?" Obviously, the last two in the line had become his name- that much she could tell. But the file had never said.

"The first six are my birthdate, but you should know that. You remembered my birthday."

"It was on file." She re-read the first six. British style. Of course- that much made sense now. "And the latter six?"

"Identification number."

"The whole thing?"

"More or less. Phase number- class- and the order in which I was born."

"So the only number here unique to you is the name they gave you." She knew he was a clone- she'd read some of the Ort-Meyer files. But thinking of fifty men who looked exactly like 47 was mildly disturbing.

"Exactly."

"What's Class one, then?" She went to sit on the bed.

"Class one clones don't die after eighteen months. We either age normally, or in my case, slightly slower than average. At least, that is my understanding." He stood and went over to sit on the chair by the bed. "I met a few Class twos. They looked significantly older- and were all albino."

"That must be weird. Seeing your own face like that."

"I never knew anything else. Just clones and doctors. It's why I helped Victoria. She didn't deserve to be a tool for killing. Didn't deserve the torture or mental programming."

"Torture? Mental programming? Jesus. And I thought just keeping her captive down there doing experiments was bad enough to get her out."

"Yes. It's something I would prefer not to discuss, if it's all the same to you."

"It's not, 47. What the hell did they do to you?" She needed to know. The Agency had been given his information _before_ he got out of the asylum. They had green-lit the project, very much interested in the result- a perfect killer. But she didn't know about what they'd done- only that he had been created to fill that role. But that wasn't all that had made him what he was, and that infuriated her.

"I left all that behind, Diana. It doesn't matter now. They made me what I am, but I _chose_ to return to this life after rescuing Father Vittorio. Just like I chose to bring you with me for a while."

She sighed. He wasn't going to tell her, and she couldn't really blame him. The memories were probably awful. "Alright, 47. I understand."

"Thank you."

"Prying into your past isn't going to help us become better friends anyway. I might just chase you off," she joked, smiling at him.

"You might," he joked back.


	21. 20- Finale

_Four years later..._

It was early winter in New York City, a gentle flurry of snow blowing across Diana Burnwood's face as she stood on the balcony of the high-rise condo. A cup of hot chocolate was clasped in her hands as she just enjoyed the slight chill.

After a whole week without seeing 47, she was beginning to grow concerned. While she had continued to stay at whichever safehouse he occupied, he still never took her into the missions with him. She would only get in the way. Even though she was far more skilled than she had once been- she was no Agent 47. No one really was.

She stared out into the city below. The streets here were never silent, even in the more up-scale parts, like here. A knock at the door brought her back into the condo. The Agency didn't know his safehouses, right? So who was at the door?

She looked through the peephole- a courier? 47 hadn't told her to expect a package. Making sure her pistol was drawn and not visible, she opened the door a bit, and peered out at the young boy.

"Hey- I was asked to deliver this package if the man who gave it to me didn't return after four days. I didn't ask questions." He held out the plain white box with an unopened letter attached to the top. "Don't worry- he paid in advance- tip included."

Diana opened the door and tucked the pistol into the back of her belt so she could take the box. No doubt, it was from 47. Probably what served as an apology for his extended absence. "Thanks." She closed and locked the door, and set the box down, plucking the letter off the top. On the back, it was simply addressed 'Diana,' which confirmed her theory.

A chirp from 47's laptop drew her to it before she could read the letter or open the box. She sat down, and opened the laptop to take a look at what it was.

The message made the world seem to stop for a moment, and her heart felt a deep sinking. Even as she read it, the screen was beginning to pixelate as the information on it was erased. 'Agent code BRO3886 - Termination confirmed. Erasing data.'

No- it wasn't true. It couldn't be true. He couldn't be dead. Not 47. He acted more like a person around her since the day they'd spoken of his past- even in passing. More open. Softer. Her hands shook as she tore the letter open to read the contents. Every word was like a burning nail in her chest.

'Diana,

If you are reading this letter, then I have finally been killed. I did not make it back to you... and for that, I am deeply sorry. We both knew this day would come.

Know that the last six years have been filled with my fondest memories, and that it was never my intention to leave you like this. I regret that I cannot say these words to you in person, and that I will never have the chance to say goodbye.

You will find that my accounts have all been transferred to your name. I have left little behind for you aside from money, but I made sure this package would make it to you, rather than be collected by the Agency and forgotten. Take my last gift to remember me, and do not live your life in my shadow any longer. Return to Victoria and your family permanently. Make sure that you do not die alone.

You were the best parts of me, Diana. If there is a Heaven for me, then perhaps I will meet you there.

I love you.  
47'

Tears filled her eyes as she read his last words. He never said them to her until this- his final goodbye. Perhaps it had been to spare her more pain- but knowing he had such feelings for her, and chose to bear them, rather than have her possibly care for him as more than just her best friend... it meant more to her than anything that could possibly be in the box.

Shaky hands gently pulled the lid off the plain container. When she saw the contents, she felt as though she would break. Her hand clasped over her mouth to somewhat muffle the gasp. For within the box, rested neatly upon a thin blood-red silk pillow, were 47's custom Silverballers, placed chambers facing eachother, the smooth black silencers tucked into the sides of the box.

47 had left her a large part of his identity- his signature weapons aside from the fiber wire. These had been made specifically for his hands- his preferences. If they had been on his body, they would be in the care of the Agency- either on display at HQ, or off to be destroyed. But they were here- in this box, and they were hers now. It meant that he had gone into his recent jobs without them- likely opting for Colts instead.

Her fingers gently brushed the smooth, cold metal of one Silverballer as if she was touching his face. "Oh, 47..." She barely regained her composure as she set the box down, and gently lifted the pistols free of the cloth. The weight told her they were fully loaded- the smell that they had been freshly cleaned and oiled before his mission. For a long moment, she sat simply holding them in her lap.

These custom pistols would be the only part of him she could keep, and he'd known that. His body would be recovered by the Agency, and cremated to erase any evidence of his existence. This metallic weight was all she had- all she would _ever_ have of him again.

His face would leave her memory in time, but she would never forget those intense ice-blue eyes. And she would never forget _him_. In the morning, she would leave, as he had wanted. For now, she set the pistols back in the box, set it beside her on the bed, and curled up to sleep, tears still streaming down her face.

In the end- the only thing that had ever mattered to 47, the legendary hitman- had been her.

* * *

 **Post-Story: Farewell from the Author**

That's all, folks. And before any of you get all fiery-tempered- I did warn you that the ending was sad. Yes. I did kill 47 in this story. Why? Because I wanted him to have a final chapter in his life that was entirely bittersweet. It's not like I'd kill off one of my favorite characters for nothing. He deserved a fond farewell in at least one story somewhere. I think it was fitting. And yes- I know I didn't write down exactly _how_ he finally met his end. That is entirely up to you- the reader.

There was no actual romance, as you all will notice, which is why there's no 47/Diana tag anywhere. At the end, while he cared for her- even loved her- he didn't want her to suffer as long by loving him. None of my stories involving 47 as the center of the story will have any romance, as I believe the character would actually lose something if he just fell in love like a normal guy. 47 is far from normal- he is _exceptional_ \- and I hope that you, dear reader, feel that this story did him justice, despite the ending.

Also keep in mind that at the end of this story, Agent 47 is an ancient fifty-seven years old- far older than hitmen usually live. Especially when you consider that 47 is often sent into what basically qualify as suicide missions.

I know many fans who will hate the fact that the main character dies. It basically goes against the unspoken rule of fanfic. But why follow the rules? Why write the normal story, with only pointless romance? I wanted to step outside the box of what 'normal' fanfics are- to delve deeper into a close friendship, rather than to have the characters get romantically involved despite themselves.

To all of you, whether you loved or hated the story- thank you for reading! I'll see you again next time in the next fic. I promise I won't kill 47 again. Though I might have him kill someone else. We'll see. But do let me know if you'd like a few one-shot stories between Winter Wonderland and the Finale.

For now, my readers- fare thee well.


End file.
